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UNivERSify  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

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LADIES'  EEADEE 

DESIGNED    FOR   THE   TJSE    OF 

'LADIES'  SCHOOLS 

AND 

FAMILY  HEADING  CIRCLES: 

COMPRISING  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  FROM  STANDARD  AUTHORS,  IN 

PROSE  AND  POETRY; 

WITH  THE  ESSENTIAL  RULES  OF  ELOCUTION, 

SIMPLIFIED  AND   ARRANGED   FOR  STRICTLY   PRACTICAL  USB. 


.JOHN  W.  S.  HOWS, 

PROFESSOR  OF  ELOCUTION, 

AUTHOR  OF  "TUB  I  II  II   Mill  I  JJ  IIJII  I  Illllllll  "  "  I  II  I    BHAK8PKA.REAN  RKADKR,"  KTC.,  Kir. 


UNIVERSITY 


-NATURE  withoin  .<  »f  small  force,  and  DISCIPLINE  without  Nature 

more  feeble:  If  exerci.M3  <>r  tetu'ly  l>o  void  of  thsse,  it  availeth  nothing." 

MILES  COVKBDALE 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  <fc  CO. 

18GO. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

JOHN  \V.  S.  HOWS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO  THE  MANV 

MOTHERS  AND  DAUGHTERS  OF  AMERICA 

TO  TVIIOM  I  HAVE   SUSTAINED  THE  HONORED  RELATION  OF 

INSTRUCTOR 

IN   THE   ART,  SO  JUSTLY   DESIGNATED 

"THE    CROWNING  GRACE  OP  EWCAT10N," 
ah  is    fllorh 

IS     I>  KI>  1C  A  TED 


PREFACE. 


A  "  LADIES'  READER"  adapted  to  the  tastes  of  advanced  and  intel- 
ligent pupils  is  a  want  so  generally  acknowledged  by  Teachers, 
that  the  attempt  to  supply  this  need  has  been  pressed  upon  me 
rather  as  ^necessity,  than  from  any  desire  to  increase  the  number 
of  Elocutionary  Text  Books. 

"With  the  young,  Elocution  must  be  rendered  an  attractive  study, 
or  it  is  at  best  INEFFECTIVE  in  its  results.  Examples  for  practice 
must  be  varied  "and  interesting  in  their  character,  or  they  will  not 
command  the  attention  and  sympathies  of  Pupils :  and  the  selec- 
tions must  afford  illustrations  of  all  the  varieties  and  modifications 
of  Elocutionary  expression,  or  the  work  will  be  comparatively  val- 
ueless, in  the  hands  of  the  best  Instructors  of  the  Art.  An  excel- 
lence that  shall  be  unmistakable  in  the  literary  and  poetic  charac- 
ter of  the  selections  must  be  combined  with  an  interest  equally 
ied  in  the  Pieces  themselves. 

Attractiveness  and  instructiveness  are  the  two  essentials  which  I 
have  endeavored  to  unite  in  the  present  work.  A  wide  field  of 
literature  has  been  embraced  in  my  choice  of  subjects.  The  most 
approved  specimens  of  standard  authors  have  been  used,  a  large 
portion  of  which  have  never  before  been  introduced  into  "  School 
Readers" — and  these  have  been  chosen  and  arranged  with  a  due 
regard  to  the  development  of  a  purely  natural  and  impressive 
method  of  delivery.  I  have  also  provided  a  rich  and  varied  collec- 
tion of  Poetic  examples  for  practice  in  Modulation,  and  emotional 
expression.  At  the  same  time  I  have  not  neglected  a  phase  of 
the  Art  which  may  be  characterized  as  the  "  Colloquial  style," 


6  PBEFACE. 

and  which,  in  view  of  its  importance  as  a  means  of  really  and 
practically  enlarging  the  enjoyments  of  the  Family  Circle,  de- 
serves a  more  than  generally  admitted  prominence.  From  these 
peculiar  features  of  the  work,  I  venture  to  anticipate  its  welcome 
reception  in  the  Social  Reading  Circle,  although  its  specific  desti- 
nation is  intended  for  a  Text  Book  in  our  higher  Ladies'  Classes  in 
Schools. 

I  need  scarcely  add  that  I  have  carefully  revised  each  Selection, 
so  as  to  make  the  entire  work  perfectly  unexceptionable  in  its 
tone;  I  have  studiously  avoided,  also,  any  sectional  or  sectarian 
tendencies  in  my  choice  of  selections.  A  brief  compendium  of 
Elocutionary  Instruction  is  prefixed  to  tbe  work,  comprising  all  the 
really  needful  rules  of  the  Art ;  which,  from  its  simplicity  and  di- 
rectness, will,  I  trust,  be  found  acceptable  and  useful  both  to  Teach- 
ers and  Pupils. 

JNO.  W.  S.  HOWS. 

5  COTTAGE  PLACE,  NEW  Yoinr, 
June  9,  1859. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I. 

PAQH 

Introduction 15 

Articulation 18 

Inflection 24 

Emphasis 32 

Modulation 36 

Pauses 37 


PART  II. 

EXAMPLES   FOR  READING   AND   RECITATION. 
ARTICLE.  AUTIIOU.  PAQK 

Female  Education Jwlgf.  Mory 39 

Tho  Wife Washington  Irvimj 40 

Monument  Mountain William  CuUen  Bryant 4G 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel  Cuillc Longfellow 49 

Outlines  of  American  History Jared  Sparks 54 

The  Cry  of  the  Children Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 57 

The  Bells Edgar  A.  Poe. 60 

Titania,  Bottom  and  Fairies Shakspeare 63 

The  Ainslie  Family — Light  and  Shadows 

of  Scottish  Life Professor  Wilson 67 

Jephthah's  Daughter N.  P.  Willis 73 

The  Nightingale  and  the  Musician John  Ford 75 

Mount  Vernon Anna  Cora  Ritchie 76 

Una  and  the  Lion Spenser  ...   80 

The  Diver Schiller 81 

istmas  Carol — Tho  Cratchit  Dinner  Dickens 84 

The  Star  and  the  Water  Lily Oliver  Wendell  Holm-is 91 

Chriatabel Coleridge 92 

Tho  Indian  Woman's  Lament Mrs.  Hemans 93 

lialf-Lengths  from  Life J/r*.  Kirldand 95 

The  Regatta  of  Venice James  Fenimore  Cooper M 


Vlll  CONTEXTS. 

ARTICLE.  AUTHOR.  PAGE 

L'  Allegro Milton Ill 

The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea  Bishop  Heber, 114 

Paradise  and  the  Peri Moore 116 

The  Landing  of  the  Mayflower Edward  Everett 123 

The  Two  Friends Wordsworth 126 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Yere Tennyson 127 

Hiawatha's  Wooing Longfellow 129 

Robert  Burns Fitz-Greene  Halleck 135 

Richard  Doubledick's  Story Dickens 137 

To  a  Skylark Shelley 150 

Alice  Ray. Sarah  Jane  Hale 152 

Shakspeare Charles  Sprague. .    154 

Coriolanus  and  Volunmia Shakspeare 155 

The  Head  of  Meranon Horace  Smith 160 

The  Dumb  Waiter Frederick  S.  Cozzens 162 

The  Fate  of  Andre Alexander  Hamilton ]  64 

Horatius  at  the  Bridge    Macaulay 167 

A  Woman  Never  Vext Wittiam  Rowley . 173 

The  Sense  of  Beauty Channing. 175 

The  Poet  of  the  Future Alexander  Smith 176 

The  Virginia  Gentleman John  P.  Kennedy 178 

The  Dying  Child Hans  Christian  Andersen 181 

The  Apollo  Belvidere Henry  Theodore^  Tackerman. .  182 

A  Vision  of  the  Vatican Frances  Anne  Kemble 185 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness N.  P.  Willis 185 

"The  Burnt  Aigle"  .  .  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 188 

The  Battle  of  Life Anna  C.  Lynch 191 

The  Month  of  August William  Howiti 193 

The  Virgin  Martyr Massinger 196 

My  Mother's  Bible George  P.  Morris 197 

Description  of  a  Dutch  Village Donald  G.  Mitchell 198 

Our  Homes  Bernard  Barton 201 

May Percival 202 

Wyoming Campbell 203 

Mr.  Minns  and  his  Cousin   Dickens 204 

Thank  God  for  Summer Eliza  Cook 213 

The  Snow  Flake Hannah  F.  Gould 214 

Imogen  at  the  Cave Shakspeare '216 

Invocation  to  Morning Thomson 218 

The  Valley  of  Mexico Wittiam  H.  Prescott 220 

Christopher  Columbus Joanna  Baillie 221 

Conversation Coivper 223 

Sleighing  Song James  T.  Fields 224 

Sunrise Wordsworth 225 

Puddleford  and  its  People H.  H.  Eiley 234 

The  Famine,  (from  Hiawatha) Longfellow 231 

St.  Agnes Tennyson 234 

The  Aborigines  of  America Mrs.  Sigourney 235 

The  Midnight  Wind Motherwell 237 

Tubal  Cain Clias.  Mackay 238 

Pencil  Sketches.  (That  Man) Miss  Leslie 239 

Dropping  Leaves Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephen* 249 


«  ONTBNTS.  IX 

ARTICLE.  AXJTHOB.  PAGE 

The  Evening  Wind William  Cullen  Bryant 251 

The  Mariner's  Hymn Mrs.  Southey 252 

Sentimental  Music Fitz  Greene  JBaSecJt 253 

The  Elders  Funeral Professor  Wilson 254 

Palestine Jno.  G.  Wliittier 260 

The  Sea  Monarch Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 262 

Indian  Summer Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 263 

Ancient  Iiidian  Village Margaret  Fuller  D'Ossoli. . . .  263 

Hellvelljn '. Sir  Walter  Scott 265 

The  Raven Edgar  A.  Poe 266 

The  Brooklet William  Gilmore  Simms 270 

Poetry  and  Nature Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 271 

The  Widow  of  Naiu N.  P.  Willis 273 

Spring  in  Ravenna Leigh  Hunt 274 

To  a  Water  Fowl William  CullenBryant 275 

The  Falls  of  Niagara JohnHowison 276 

Perdita  and  her  Flowers Shakspeare 281 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Hood 284 

Clouds  and  Sunshine Frederick  S.  Cozzens 286 

May  Mora  Song.                      Motherwell 288 

A  Ballad  of  Sir  John  Franklin Geo.  H.  Hoker. 289 

The  Land  of  our  Forefathers Edward  Everett 291 

The  Last  Crusader Bulwer 292 

Ballad  from  the  German Herder 294 

The  Mourners Eliza  Cook 297 

Dedication  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun William  Ware 299 

The  May  Queen Tennyson 304 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor Ijongfettow .' . . .  309 

-  of  Greenwood Jno.  W.  S.  Hows 313 

Hymn  to  the  Beautiful R.  II.  Stoddard. 316 

Abbottsford  and  Molrost- Bayard  Taylor 319 

Alice  Lee Miss  Landon 320 

The  (                     :-«l Mrs.  Norton 322 

Mosses  from  an  old  Manse Hawthorne 323 

Italy Byron 326 

The  Escape  of  Queen  Mary  from  Loch- 

leven  Castle Sir  Walter  Scott 328 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay,  Percival 334 

Poets  and  Poesy Lamartine 336 

True  Woman Motherwell 338 

The  Bugle  Song Tennyson 339 

iwken.... Fitz- Greene Halleck 339 

The  Pride  of  Ancestrj Daniel  Webster 340 

The  Raising  of  Jairus's  Daughter Mrs.  Anna  Cora  Ritchie 342 

The  Dying  Improvisatore Mrs.  Hemans 344 

i- -terif tics  of                 re Carlyk 34R 

Tli"  Taming  of  the  Shruw Shakspeare 348 

Alexander  Pope 353 

William  Cullen  Bryant 355 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt Hood 361 

The  Last  Vendue Rev.  Ralph  Hoyt 363 

The  Storm  Ship Washington  Irving 365 

1* 


X  CONTENTS. 

ARTICLE.  AUTHOR.  PAOZ 

Description  of  the  Chase James  Sheridan  Knowles 371 

The  Last  Plague  of  Egypt Eev.  A.  Cleveland  Coxe 373 

Return  of  the  Wept  of  Wish-ton-wish . .  James  Fenimore  Cooper 374 

The  Autumn  Leaf , John  A.  Hoivs 381 

The  Flowers  of  the  Field John  Kelle 381 

Sabbath  in  New  England Catherine  M.  Sedgwick 383 

Bingen  on  the  Ehine Mrs.  Norton 385 

The  Delaware  Water  Gap Mrs.  E.  F.  Ettet 38G 

Family  Pictures  —  Mr.  Britain  and  his 

Spouse Dickens 388 

Parrhasius N.  P.  Willis 392 

Eome Byron 393 

The  Execution  of  Queen  Mary Lamartine 394 

Earth  with  her  thousand  voices  praises 

God Longfellow 396 

William  Tell James  Sheridan  Knowles 398 

A  Thanksgiving  Dinner Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens 403 

The  Death  of  Leonidas Rev.  George  Croly 409 

The  Pilgrim  s  Vision. Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 411 

The  Hunter,  (a  Legend,) J.  G.  Whitlier 413 

Love  of  the  Beautiful John  RusMn 414 

The  Merry  Month  of  June James  Russell  Lowell 416 

The  Constancy  of  Nature Richard  If.  Dana 417 

On  Vulgarity  and  Affectation William  Hazlilt 418 

Sounds Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. . .  41 9 

The  Country  Clergyman Oliver  Goldsmith 422 

On  the  Being  of  a  God Young 423 

The  Bible  . .  , .  GrimU. .  . .  424 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


ATTTnOR.  PAGB 

Andersen,  Hans  Christian 181 

Baillie,  Joanna 221 

Barton,  Bernard 201 

Boker,  Geo.  H. 289 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 57,  419 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 40,  251,  275,  355 

Bulwer,  Sir  Edward  Lytton. 292 

Byron,  Lord 326,  393 

Campbell,  Thomas 203 

Carlyle,  Thomas 346 

Channincr,  W.  E 175 

Coleridge,  S.  T 92 

Cook,  Eliza. 213,  297 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore 99,  374 

Cowper,  William 223 

Coxe,  Rev.  A.  Cleveland 373 

Cozzens,  Frederick  8 162,  286 

Croly,  Rev.  George 409 

Dana,  Richard  H 417 

Dickens,  Charles 84,  137,  204,  388 

D'Ossoli,  Margaret  Fuller 263 

Kllct,  Mrs.  E.  V 386 

Emerson,  R.  W 271 

Everett,  Edward 123,  291 

Fields,  James  T 224 

Ford,  John 75 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 422 

Gould,  Hannah  F 214 

Grimke 424 

Hale,  Sarah  Jane 152 

] lall,  Mrs.  S.  G 188 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene 135,  253,  339 

Hamilton,  Alexander 164 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel 323 


Xll  INDEX   OF    AUTHOKS. 

AUTHOB.  PACK 

Hazlitt,  William 418 

Heber,  Bishop 114 

Hemans,  Mrs 93,  344 

Herder,  J.  G- 294 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno 263 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 91,  411 

Hood,  Thomas 284,  361 

Howison,  John 276 

Howitt,  Win 193 

Hows,  Jno.  W.  S 313 

Hows,  Jno.  A 381 

Hoyt,  Eev.  Ralph 363 

Hunt,  Leigh 274 

Irving,  Washington 40,  365 

Keble,  John 381 

Kemble,  Mrs.  Frances  Anne , 185 

Kennedy,  John  P 178 

Kirkland,  Mrs 95 

Knowles,  James  Sheridan 371,  398 

Lamartine 336,  394 

Landon,  Miss 320 

Leslie,  Miss 239 

Lowell,  James  Russell 416 

Longfellow,  H.  W 49,  129,  231,  309,  396 

Lynch,  Anna  C 191 

Macaulay,  T.  Babington 167 

Mackay,  Charles 238 

Massinger 196 

Milton,  John Ill 

Mitchell,  D.  G 198 

Moore,  Thomas 116 

Morris,  G.  P 197 

Motherwell,  William 237,  288,  338 

Norton,  Mrs 322,  385 

Percival,  J.  G 202,  334 

Poe,  Edgar  A 60,  266 

Pope,  Alexander. 353 

Prescott,  William  H 220 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan 262 

Riley,  H.  H 224 

Ritchie,  Anna  Cora 96,  342 

Rowley,  William 173 

Ruskin,  John 414 

Schiller,  Frederic 81 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 265,  328 

Sedgwick,  Catherine  M 383 

Shakspeare 63,  155,  216,  281,  348 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 150 

Sigourney,  Mrs 235 

Simms,  Wm.  Gilmore 270 

Smith,  Alexander 176 

Smith,  Horace 160 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS.  XU1 

AUTHOR.  PAOB 

Southey,  Mrs 252 

Sparks,  Jared 54 

Spenser,  Edmund 80 

Sprague,  Charles 154 

Stephens,  Mrs.  Ann  S 249,  403 

Stoddard,  R.  II 316 

Story,  Judge 39 

Taylor,  Bayard 319 

Tennyson,  Alfred 127,  234,  304,  339 

Thomson,  James 218 

Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore 182 

Ware,  William 299 

Webster,  Daniel 340 

Whittier,  J.  G 260,  413 

Willis,  N.  P 4 73,  185,  273,  392 

Wilson,  Professor 67,  254 

Wordsworth,  William 126,  225 

Young,  Rev.  Edward 423 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE    PRINCIFUKS    Oil'    itl-LOCUTION". 


THAT  the  study  and  practice  of  ELOCUTION  should  form  a  branch 
in  our  systems  of  Education,  is  now  generally  conceded.  The  true 
method  of  conveying  a  knowledge  of  this  art  is,  however,  still  open 
to  jnncli  discussion. 

cry  large  class  of  intelligent  and  educated  persons  adopt  the 
radical  opinions  of  Archbishop  Whately,  and,  echoing  his  injunc- 
tions to  students,  say — 

"  Don't  use  any  system  of  elocution:  it  will  give  you  a,  false  style  ; 
but  read  and  speak  naturally,  as  if  you  understood  and  felt  what 
you  are  reading  and  speaking.  NATURE  and  HABIT  will  show  you 
While  in  direct  opposition  to  this  high  authority  we  have 
elaborated  treatises  on  the  Art,  from  popular  Teachers,  which  insist 
upon  a  perfect  system  of  ARTIFICIAL  training,  by  which  the  pupil  is 
reduced  to  a  mere  mechanical  automaton,  acted  upon  only  by  arbi- 
trary and  complicated  Rules,  and  graduating  every  emotional  ex- 
pression of  the  voice  by  a  scale  of  MUSICAL  NOTATION.  Now,  these 
ultra  views  of  the  Art  I  conceive  to  be  equally  remote  from  a  true 
ption  of  the  requirements  necessary  to  form  a  natural,  grace- 
ful, and  impressive  mode  of  delivery  either  in  Reading  or  Speaking. 

In  my  long  experience  as  a  Professor  of  this  Art,  I  have  never 
found  that  NATURE,  uneducated,  untrained  NATURE,  ever  made  a 
naturally  correct  reader,  or  an  impressive  and  eloquent  speaker.  At 
the  same  time  I  am  free  to  confess  that  experience  has  confirmed  me 
in  the  opinion  that  elaborated  ARTIFICIAL  rules  are  almost  "worse 
than  useless,"  for  they  fetter  all  the  natural  impulses  of  the  Pupil,' 
and  too  frequently  substitute  mannerisms  and  affectations  for  a 
direct,  earnest,  natural  method,  of  delivery.  .And  yet  ELOCUTION 
has  its  rules,  as  essential  and  as  necessary  to  be  understood  and 


16  IXTKODUCTIOX. 

studied  as  are  the  rules  which  govern  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
exact  sciences. 

To  simplify  these  rules,  and  to  present  only  those  which  are  abso- 
lutely requisite  to  form  a  strictly  natural  and  finished  reader  and 
speaker,  has  been  the  aim  and  labor  of  my  professional  life.  In  the 
compendium  I  now  proceed  to  offer  are  embodied  the  results  of  my 
practical  experiences  of  the  requirements  of  the  Art — presented  in 
the  most  direct  and  brief  form  I  could  adopt. 

As  this  work  is  more  especially  designed  for  the  use  of  "  Ladies' 
Eeading  Classes,"  a  few  suggestions  of  a  general  character  may  not 
inappropriately  precede  the  Rules  I  have  given  for  study  and  prac- 
tice. 

I  assume  that  the  only  true  basis  of  Instruction  for  this  Art  is,  to 
lead  the  Pupil  into  that  perception  of  the  meaning  and  construction 
of  language,  that,  in  its  delivery,  a  full  appreciation  of  its  sense 
shall  be  felt,  and  that,  in  this  vocal  expression,  more  especially  in 
READING,  the  nearer  we  approach  to  the  tones  of  the  votee  we  em- 
ploy in  speaking,  the  more  agreeable  will  be  our  efforts  to  those 
who  listen,  and  the  nearer  we  shall  approach  to  a  purely  natural 
style  of  Elocution — an  accomplishment  than  which,  none  can  be  more 
desirable  for  a  young  Lady  to  take  home  for  the  adornment  and  en- 
joyment of  the  social  circle. 

This  intellectual  talking  style  in  reading  can  be  acquired  by  very 
youthful  pupils,  and  it  is  with  such  I  would  imperatively  recommend 
its  practice.  It  is  while  the  young  organs  are  flexible,  and  the 
habits  are  fresh  and  untrammelled  by  conventionalisms,  and  before 
mannerisms  are  contracted  and  confirmed,  that  this  all-important 
Elocutionary  instruction  can  be  most  effectively  carried  out ;  and 
the  habit  thus  obtained  will  never  be  eradicated. 

I  would  also  recommend  this  method  as  the  only  one  to  be  used 
for  adult  practice.  The  perceptions  are  constantly  quickened  into 
action,  and  an  acute,  vivid  appreciation  of  the  beauties  of  language 
is  acquired,  that  necessarily  leads  to  the  adoption  of  tones  perfectly 
in  accordance  with  the  sense,  and  an  appreciative  and  refined  taste 
is  cultivated,  which  will  prefer  taking  NATURE  as  its  Elocutionary 
model,  rather  than  the  AETIFIOIAL  and  ABBITBABY  rules  of  systems. 

The  human  voice,  however,  requires  to  be  trained ;  the  vocal  or- 
gans can  be  improved  and  developed ;  and  aids  are  afforded  in  the 
essential  rules  of  Elocution. 

Practice  on  the  elementary  sounds  of  letters,  upon  Elocutionary 
principles,  will  produce  a  rich,  pure,  and  finished  ARTICULATION. 


1NT1IODUOTION.  17 

A  knowledge  of  the  positive  rules  which  govern  INFLECTIONS,  and 
practice  on  the  same  to  enable  the  Pupil  to  inflect  with  ease ;  the 
general  knowledge  of  Rules  governing  EMPHATIC  STRESS,  and  a 
practice  on  MODULATION  in  its  varieties  of  level,  emotional,  and  imi- 
tative tones,  are  all  the  necessary  mechanical  auxiliaries  which 
Elocution  as  an  Art  affords  to  the  Student. 

These  essential  rules  I  now  present,  condensed  into  the  briefest 
and  most  practical  form,  the  due  practice  of  which  in  classes,  ac- 
companied by  the  application  of  the  principles  to  the  daily  READING 
from  Examples  I  have  furnished  in  this  work,  will,  I  trust,  materially 
in  the  formation  of  an  eminently  natural  and  correct  style  of 
Reading. 


THE  ESSENTIAL  RULES  OF  ELOCUTION.* 

ELOCUTION  has  been  divided  into — 

ABTICULATION  and  PEONUNCIATION,  embracing  distinctness,  force, 
and  freedom  from  Provincialisms. 

INFLECTION,  having  a  regard  to  the  slides,  shifts,  and  pauses  of  the 
voice. 

MODULATION  is  the  proper  management  of  the  tones  of  the  voice, 
so  as  to  produce  grateful  melody  to  the  ear,  in  accordance  with  the 
sense. 

EMPHASIS  marks  the  comparative  importance  of  words  in  a 
sentence. 

AETICULATION. 

Correct  articulation  is  the  most  important  exercise  of  the  voice 
and  of  the  organs  of  speech.  It  consists  in  giving  every  letter  in  a 
syllable  its  due  proportion  of  sound,  according  to  the  most  approved 
standard  of  pronunciation,  and  in  making  a  distinct  syllabication  of 
words. 

In  just  articulation  the  words  are  not  to  be  hurried  over,  nor 
precipitated  syllable  over  syllable,  nor  melted  together  into  a  mass 
of  confusion ;  they  should  be  delivered  full,  pure,  and,  as  it  were, 
chiselled  from  the  lips — and  thus  only  can  words  make  their  due 
impression  upon  hearers. 

For  the  benefit  of  youthful  and  untrained  Pupils,  I  annex  the  fol- 
lowing Examples  for  Practice  on  Elementary  Sounds  of  Letters  and 
Syllables,  on  which  depend  the  clear  and  distinct  AETIOULATION  of 
words. 

ELEMENTAEY   VOWEL   SOUNDS. 

A  has  eight  sounds :  / 

1.  as  in  game,  debate. 

2.  "  any,  many,  miscellany,  herbage. 

3.  "  care,  dare,  fare. 

4.  "  liar,  regular,  inward. 

5.  "  father,  calm. 

*  I  claim  no  originality  in  the  creation  of  any  new  system  of  Elocutionary  Instruc- 
tion. I  have  only  compiled  and  adapted  Eules  from  acknowledged  Musters  of  Uio 
Art,  rejecting  those  which  my  experience  has  satisfied  me  are  but  extraneous  and  non- 
essential. 


ELEMENTARY    VOWEL    SOUNDS.  19 

C.  as  in  that,  glass. 

7.  "    all,  law,  salt. 

8.  "    what,  want,  was. 
E  has  five  sounds. 

1.  as  in  me,  theme. 

2.  "    pretty,  been,  England,  faces,  linen. 

3.  "    bet,  end,  sell. 

4.  i%    where,  there,  ere,  e'er,  ne'er. 

5.  "    herd,  merchant. 
I  has  four  sounds. 

1.  as  in  chide,  decide. 
-.      u    machine,  caprice. 
•".      "    chin,  wit,  hill. 
4.      "    bird,  flirt,  virtue. 
O  has  six  sounds. 

1.  as  in  tone,  droll. 

2.  "    love,  money,  othei. 
''    do,  more. 

4.  '•     woman,  wolf. 

5.  "    cost,  former,  nor. 

6.  "    not,  robber. 
U  has  five  sounds. 

1.  as  in  mule,  pure. 

2.  "     full,  push. 
"    dull,  tub. 

4.  "    busy,  minute. 

5.  "    bury. 

Y,  when  a  vowel,  has  four  sounds. 

1.  as  in  my,  tyrant. 

2.  "    fancy,  envy. 

3.  "    lyric,  system. 

4.  "     myrtle. 

W,  as  a  vowel,  has  no  independent  sound ;  in  conjunction  with 
another  vowel  it  forms  a  diphthong — as  in  blow,  cow,  howl,  scowl. 

N.  B. — The  Teacher  will  explain  to  the  Pupil  the  variations  in  the 
sounds  of  the  vowel— whether  alphabetical,  short,  or  varying  in  the 
sound  of  the  letter. 

When  vowels  appear  in  combination  they  are  called  diphthongs 
and  triphthongs. 

A  diphthong  is  the  union  of  two  vowels  in  one  articulation,  as  on 
in  sour. 


20  ELEMENTARY    CONSONANT   SOUNDS. 

A  triphthong  is  a  union  of  three  vowels  in  one  articulation,  as  eau 
in  beau. 

Diphthongs  and  Triphthongs  are  divided  into  proper  and  im- 
proper. Proper  diphthongs  and  triphthongs  blend  their  vowels,  and 
form  one  sound ;  as  ou  in  sour,  and  eau  in  beau.  Improper  have 
only  one  of  their  vowels  vocal,  as  ea  in  beat,  eau  in  beauty. 

N.  B. — As  the  insertion  of  Tables  for  the  varied  diphthongal  and 
triphthongal  sounds  would  occupy  more  space  than  I  can  allot  for 
them  in  this  work,  I  beg  to  suggest  that  attention  be  paid  to  them 
in  Orthography  Lessons,  and  in  Reading  of  words  containing  their 
varieties. 

ELEMENTARY   CONSONANT   SOUNDS. 

B  as  it  sounds  in  rebel,  robber,  cub,  babe,  ball,  bead,  mob.  It  is 
silent  after  in,  except  in  accumb,  succumb,  rhomb,  and  also  before 
t  in  the  same  syllable  as  in  lamb,  bomb,  thumb,  debtor. 

F  as  heard  in  fancy,  muffin. 

H  as  in  hat,  horse,  hedge,  hail. 

When  silent,  as  in  heir,  herb,  honest,  hour,  rhomb,  rhetoric,  ah,  oh, 
humble,  hostler,  exhale,  exhort,  exhaust,  exhilarate. 

J  as  in  jelly,  James,  and  its  y  sound  in  hallelujah,  joy,  jar,  jilt. 

K  as  in  keep,  skirt,  smirky,  ink,  or  mute  before  n,  as  in  knife, 
knew. 

L  as  in  sorrel,  billow,  love,  lull,  lie,  lad,  all,  weal. 

"When  silent,  as  in  could,  calf,  talk,  balm,  salve. 

M  as  in  man,  maim,  mime,  may,  more,  am,  him,  hum,  deem, 
murmur. 

P  as  in  pay,  lip,  puppy. 

"When  silent,  as  in  pneumatics,  tempt,  psalm,  corps,  raspberry, 
receipt. 

R  as  in  rage,  brimstone,  hurra,  rap,  tar,  hare,  ire,  ore,  lure,  bur, 
rare,  rear,  roared,  rarely,  drier,  error,  honor,  terror,  brier,  prior, 
truer. 

V  as  in  valve,  vaunt,  cave,  leave,  velvet,  survive,  vain,  levity, 
relieve. 

W  as  in  want,  reward,  woe,  way,  was,  ware,  wed,  wine. 

When  silent,  as  in  answer,  sword,  wrap,  wreck,  wrong. 

Y  as  in  ye,  yes,  young,  yawn,  yearly. 

Sh  as  in  short,  relish. 

Th  as  in  thine,  they,  than,  then,  thee,  bathe,  beneath,  them,  clothe, 
think,  with. 


ELEMENTARY  CONSONANT  BOUNDS.  21 

"When  silent,  in  asthma,  isthmus,  phthisic,  Thomas,  Thames,  thyme. 

AV  as  in  woe,  way,  was,  ware,  wed,  wine. 

AVh  as  in  which,  what,  whale,  when. 

AVhen  silent,  in  whole,  who,  whoop. 

D  as  in  did,  dawn,  den,  laid,  mad,  bed,  dead,  meddle,  ruddy. 

AVhen  taking  a  t  sound  in  faced,  stuffed,  cracked,  tripped,  vexed, 
vouched,  flashed,  piqued. 

When  silent,  as  in  handsome,  stadtholder,  and  Wednesday. 

G  hard,  as  in  gag,  gave,  gall,  gull,  bag,  hag,  log,  rug,  game,  gone, 
glory,  grandeur. 

Soft,  as  in  gem,  giant,  ginger,  Egypt,  gyration,  badge,  edge. 

When  silent,  as  in  phlegm,  gnash,  malign,  intaglio,  seraglio. 

N  as  in  nun,  nine,  nay,  now,  an,  den,  din,  manner,  number,  bank, 
distinct,  bronchial,  banquet,  anxiously. 

When  silent,  as  in  kiln,  hymn. 

S  as  in  sap,  passing,  use,  Sabbath,  set,  smile,  strifes,  sugar,  sure, 
Imps,  dissolve,  possess,  disarm,  discern,  disdain,  disease,  dis- 
honor. j;uise,  otherwise,  sorry,  curiosity,  monstrosity,  as,  is, 
was,  his,  has,  these,  those,  others,  ribs,  rugs,  praises,  riches,  dies,  tries, 
flies,  reserve,  reside,  result,  expulsion,  transient,  mansion,  version, 
censure,  pressure,  ambrosial,  vision,  passion,  usual,  pleasure,  erasure. 

When  silent,  as  in  aisle,  corps,  demesne,  isle,  island,  puisne, 
int. 

T  as  in  ten,  met,  written,  patient,  notation,  fustian,  question. 

AVhen  silent,  as  in  hasten,  bustle,  6clat,  hautboy,  mortgage, 
chestnut. 

X  as  in  exit,  exercise,  excellence,  luxury,  expense,  excuse,  extent, 
Xenophon,  Xerxes,  Xanthus,  doxology,  proximity,  vexation,  relaxa- 
tion, exhale,  exhibit,  exhort,  exhaust. 

Z  as  in  zone,  maze,  haze,  azure,  zest,  zinc,  glazier. 

Ch  as  in  chin,  chub,  church,  machine,  chagrin,  chaise,  scheme, 
chorus,  distich. 

AVhen  silent,  as  in  schism,  yacht,  drachm. 

N"g  as  in  sing,  song,  sang,  mingling,  arrange,  derange. 

O  as  in  cart,  cat,  colt,  cut,  cur,  college,  cottage,  cedar,  cider, 
cymbal,  mercy,  ocean,  social,  special,  species,  spacious,  discern, 
sacrifice,  suffice. 

When  silent,  as  in  czar,  czarina,  indict,  muscle,  victuals. 

Gh  as  in  laugh,  cough,  trough. 

Ph  as  in  philosopher,  caliph. 

Q  as  in  banquet,  conquer,  coquet. 


22  ELEMENTAltY    CONSONANT   SOUNDS. 

N".  B. — By  continuous  practice  on  the  foregoing  elementary  sounds 
of  letters,  with  reference  to  their  importance  in  Elocutionary  ex- 
pression— that  is,  the  development  of  the  pure  weal  tone  in  their 
pronunciation — Pupils  would  be  insensibly  led  into  a  correct  knowl- 
edge, and  a  finished  execution  of  what  have  been  designated  Tonic 
and  Subtonic  Sounds,  without  being  distracted  by  the  elaborated 
rules  and  tables  of  examples,  deemed  essential  by  those  who  are 
advocates  for  complicated  artificial  rules.  To  further  aid  Pupils  of 
matured  capabilities,  I  annex  a  T#ble  of  Tonics,  Subtonics,  and 
Atonies,  as  arranged  by  Dr.  Rush,  and  which  are  generally  adopted 
by  Professors  of  Elocution. 

But  all  the  essential  principles  of  Articulated  Sounds  may  be 
evolved  in  the  examples  I  have  before  given.  The  exercise  on  the 
following  Tables  may  be  found  advantageous  in  developing  and 
strengthening  the  vocal  organs,  if  the  practice  is  made  to  involve 
the  prolonged  sounds  of  the  vowels  and  vocal  consonants — with  a 
full  expulsion  of  the  chest  tones,  and  with  varied  modulations  of  the 
voice. 

T(  >NICS. 

Tonics  are  elementary  sounds,  which  have  a  distinct  and  perfect 
tone  proper  to  themselves,  and  capable  of  being  held  or  prolonged 
by  the  voice  indefinitely.  They  are — A,  E,  I,  O,  U,  as  heard  in 

ALL,  ON,  ARM,  AT,  ALE, 

THERE,        END,          EVE,  ILL,  OLD, 

Do,  BULL,         UEN,  Us. 

The  DIPHTHONGAL  TONICS  are — 

AIL,  ISLE,  OUE,  OIL,  UNION. 

.     SUBTONICS. 

Subtonics  have  tone  or  vocality,  but  are  inferior  to  tonics  iii  ful- 
ness of  power  of  sustainment.  They  are — 

B  as  in  bad.  Y  as  in  yet. 

D  "  dash.  W  "  wild. 

G  "  gum.  R  "  Rome. 

Y  "  vat.  L  "  lull. 

Z  "  zeal.  M  "  mum. 

J  "  judge,  N  "  nun. 

Zsh  "  azure.  Ng    "  England. 

Th  "  then. 


ELEMENTAKY    CONSOXAXT    SOUNDS,  23 

ATOMCS. 

Atonies. — Sounds  without  tones — a  mere  impulsion  of  the  breath 
without  vocality.  They  are — 

P  as  in  pay.  Jl  as  in  hit. 

T       "     task.  Wh    '«      when. 

lv      -     kill.  R       "     ride. 

F       -     light.  L       "     lily. 

M     same.  M      "      mind. 

C'h    ki     church.  N       "     now. 

Sh     "     shame.  Th     "     thing. 
Th     "     thin. 

The  following  Examples  may  be  used  as  a  further  practice  on 
prolonged  rowel  and  vocal  consonant  sounds,  fusing  the  sound  of  one 
word  into  the  next  following,  to  acquire  the  power  of  sustaining  the 
in  the  u-e  of  suspensive  tones: 

A  in  age,  air,  aim,  fate. 

K  in  eel,  eve,  ear,  fear. 

I  in  isle,  ire,  mind,  bind. 

O  in  old,  oar,  do,  our. 

U  in  use,  nature,  future,  mature. 

B  as  in  orb.  N  as  in  own. 

D      "      aid.  R      "      war. 

L       "      all.  V      '?      save. 

M       "       arm.  Z       "      amaze. 

Practice  on  unaccented  vowels,  or  attention  to  their  correct  ar- 
ticulation in  Reading  or  Reciting,  should  be  observed  by  careful 
Teachers  and  Pupils;  as,  for  example,  on  the  words  be-lieve,  be- 
fore, be-hind,  be-gin,  be-stride,  be-stir,  be-long,  pre-fer,  pre-fix,  pre- 
clude, pro-mote,  pro-claim,  pro-trude,  etc. 

As  pronunciation  belongs  more  exclusively  to  dictionaries,  it  is 
unnecessary  to  attempt  giving  any  rules  in  this  book.  In  the  varie- 
ties of  pronunciation  on  particular  words  which  have  crept  into  use, 
I  do  not  pivsume  to  offer  an  opinion — further  than  to  state  my  own 
practice,  wlneh  is,  where  a  choice  has  been  left  to  the  student  by 
standard  orthoi'-j)i>ts.  I  decide  upon  using  the  most  euphonious  of  the 
\ari«  • 


24:  INFLECTION. 


INFLECTION. 

INFLECTION  is  the  bending  or  sliding  of  the  voice  either  upward 
or  downward.  There  are  two  inflections ;  the  one  called  the  Up- 
ward, or  rising  Inflection;  the  other  the  Downward,  or  Falling 
Inflection.  As  connected  with  pauses,  there  is  one  inflection  which 
denotes  that  the  sense  or  meaning  is  suspended,  and  another  which 
denotes  that  the  sense  is  completed.  "  To  be  carnally  minded' — is 
— deathV 

In  elementary  Elocutionary  training  it  is  essential  that  the  ear 
should  be  practised  on  the  different  sounds  of  Inflections,  and  the 
voice  should  be  trained  to  inflect  with  ease  and  facility :  the  follow- 
ing compilation  of  Tables  will  be  found  essential  for  these  purposes. 

Let  the  following  list  of  numbers  be  pronounced  slowly,  distinctly, 
and  loud ;  marking  each  inflection  with  precision. 

The  acute  accent  (')  denotes  the  rising  Inflection. 

The  grave  accent  (v)  denotes  the  falling  Inflection. 

TABLE   OF   INFLECTIONS. 

One',  two',  three',  four',  five',  six',  seven',  eight',  nine',  ten', 
eleven",  twelve\ 

N.  B. — Note  that  the  number  preceding  the  last  is  marked  with 
a  double  rising  inflection,  to  indicate  that  it  precedes  the  final  close 
of  the  list.  The  application  of  this  Rule  to  sentences,  and  groups 
in  sentences,  will  be  noticed  under  the  proper  heads. 

One. 

/    \ 

One,  two. 

/    //     \ 

One,  two,  three. 

i    l     II    \ 

One,  two,  three,  four. 

/    /     i    ii    \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five. 

/    /      /    /    //  \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six. 


INFLECTION.  25 

/      /        /      /      /     //       \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven. 

/    /     //////      \ 

Onef  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  .eight. 

/    /     i    I    l  i    i      ii    \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine. 

i    /    I  I     i     i     ii   \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten. 

/   /     l    I  l  l    i     I    I    II     \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven. 

/    /     /    /   /  /     /     ill     ll     \ 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve. 

EXAMPLES   OF    THE    KISING    AND   FALLING   INFLECTIONS   CONTRASTED. 

The  Riainrj,  followed  ly  the  Falling  Inflection. 

Does  he  talk  rationally',  or  irrationallyv? 
Does  he  pronounce  correctly',  or  incorrectly"? 
Does  he  mean  honestly',  or  dishonestly"? 
Does  she  dance  gracefully',  or  ungracefully"? 
Do  they  act  cautiously',  or  incautiously"? 

The  Falling,  followed  by  the  Rising. 

lie  talked  rationally^,  not  irrationally'. 
Ik-  pronounces  correctly  \  not  incorrectly'. 
He  means  honestly^,  not  dishonestly'. 
She  dances  gracefully  \  not  ungracefully'. 
They  acted  cautiously",  not  incautiously'. 

To  enable  the  Pupil  to  slide  without  angularity  or  abruptness,  a 
practice  on  the  following  exercise,  from  numbers  one  to  ten,  may  be 

u.-'ed :  or 


EXERCISES   ON   THE   INFLECTIONS. 

Blessed'  are   the  poor  in    spirit".     Blessed'  are    the    meek\ 
Blessed'  are  the  peace-makers\ 

Let  your  light  so  shine  before  men',  that  they  may  see  yoar  good 
works',  and  glorify  your  Father"  which  is  in  heaven". 
2 


26  INFLECTION. 

And  now  abideth  faith',  hope",  charityr;  these  three:  but  the 
greatest  of  these' — is — charity \ 

"When  all  thy  mercies',  O  my  God', 

My  rising  soul  surveys' — 
Transported  with  the  view',  I'm  lost 

In  wonder',  love",  and  praise\ 

Correct  articulation',  is  the  most  important  exercise  of  the  voice', 
and  of  the  organs  of  speech\ 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead',  is  the  only  sorrow'  from  which  we  re- 
fuse to  be  divorced^. 

Age',  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life',  increases  our  desire  of 
living\ 

Christianity'  bears  all  the  marks  of  a  divine  original.  It  came 
down  from  heaven',  and  its  purpose  is  to  carry  us  up  thither\ 

Year'  steals  upon  us'  after  year\  Life'  is  never  still  for  a  mo- 
ment', but  continually',  though  insensibly',  sliding  into  a  new  form\ 
Infancy'  rises  up  fast  to  childhood^ — childhood'  to  youth* — youth 
passes  quickly  into  manhood',  and  the  gray  hair'  and  the  fading 
look',  are  not  long  in  admonishing  us",  that  old  age  is  near  at  hand\ 

/  \ 

True  gentleness  teaches  us  to  bear  one  another's  burdens;    to 

/  /  /         \ 

rejoice  with  those  who  rejoice ;  to  weep  with  those  who  weep  ;  to 

please  every  one  his  neighbor  for  his  good ;  to  be  kind  and  tender- 

\  .    /  \  // 

hearted ;  to  be  pitiful  and  courteous ;  to  support  the  weak,  and  to  be 

patient  toward  all  men. 

"When  the  Pupil  has  learned  to  inflect  with  ease,  the  following 
specific  rules  should  be  committed  to  memory,  and  the  Examples 
affixed  to  the  rules  may  be  practised,  until  the  application  of  the 
rules  is  thoroughly  understood  : 

GENEEAL   ESSENTIAL   EULES   ON   INFLECTION. 

Interrogation. 

When  a  question  commences  with  a  verb,  it  terminates  with  the 
rising  inflection. 

When  a  question  commences  with  an  interrogative  adverb  or 
pronoun,  it  terminates  with  a  falling  inflection. 


INFLECTION.  27 

EXAMPLES. 

Interrogations  Governed  by  a  Verb. 

I 
Did  he  say  he  would  come  ? 

Will  he  come? 

/ 
Is  he  here  ? 

Shall  dust  and  ashes  stand  in  the  presence  of  that  uncreated  glory', 
before  which  principalities  and  powers  bow  down,  tremble  and  adore'? 
Shall  guilty  and  condemned  creatures  appear  in  the  presence  of  Him, 
m  whose  sight  the  heavens  are  not  clean,  and  who  chargeth  his 
angels  with  lolly'? 

Interrogations  Governed  ly  Relative  Pronouns. 

Who  will  come? 


Which  of  them  will  come  ? 

What  will  he  do? 

\ 
When  will  he  come? 

Where  will  he  go? 

How  can  he  exalt  his  thoughts  to  any  thing  great'  und  noble',  who 
only  believes  that  after  a  short  turn  on  the  stage  of  this  world',  he 
IB  to  sink  into  oblivion",  and  to  Idse  his  consciousness  foreverv? 

If  I'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave', 

By  nature's  la\v  design'd', 
Why  was  an  independent  wish' 

E'er  planted  in  my  iniiuT? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  \  or  scornN? 
Or,  why  hath  man  the  will',  and  power" ! 

To  make  his  fellows  mourn  V 

Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave',  even  of  an  enemy',  and  not 
compunctious  throb',  that  he  should  ever  have  warred  with 
the  poor  handful  of  earth",  that  lies  mouldering  before  him^? 


28  INFLECTION. 

"Who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand', 

By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus^  ? 

Or,  wallow  naked  in  December's  snow', 

By  mere  remembrance  of  the  summer's  heatv  ? 

EXCEPTIONS. 

Emphasis  breaks  through  this  rule. 
Note. — See  rule  under  the  division  of  Emphasis. 
When  a  series  of  questions  is  long  and  terminates  a  paragraph, 
the  last  number  may  take  the  falling  inflection,  as — 

Was  the  hope  drunk 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yourself' ?     Hath  it  slept  since'? 

And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale, 

At  what  it  did  so  freely'?    From  this  time, 

Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afear'd 

To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act'  and  valor', 

As  thou  art  in  desire"  ?     Would'st  thou  have  that' 

Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life', 

And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem", 

Letting  I  dare  not'  wait  upon  I  would1 ', 

Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adagev  ? 

When  two  or  more  questions  in  succession,  the  first  beginning 
with  a  verb,  are  separated  by  the  disjunctive  particle  or,  the  last 
question  requires  the  falling,  and  the  preceding  ones  the  rising  in- 
flection : 

Can  honoris  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust  ? 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Do  the  perfections  of  the  Almighty  lie  dormant,  or  are  they  not 
rather  in  continual  exercise? 

EXCLAMATIONS  of  joy.  and  surprise  take  the  rising ;.f 'ear,  anger, 
scorn,  grief,  and  awe,  the  falling  inflection. 

NEGATION  is  governed  by  the  rising  inflection,  except  when 
emphatic. 

AFFIRMATION  invariably  by  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

Affirmation. 
That  is  my  book. 


INFLECTION.  29 

Negation. 

It  is  not  my  book. 
I  said  good,  not  bad. 

NEGATIVE  SENTENCES. 

Negative  sentences,  and  negative  members  of  sentences,  when 
they  do  not  conclude  a  paragraph,  require  the  rising  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

You  are  not  left  alone'  to  climb  the  arduous  ascent — God  is  with 
you ;  who  never  suffers  the  spirit  which  rests  on  him  to  fail,  nor 
the  man  who  seeks  his  favor  to  seek  it  in  vaiu\ 

I  tax  not  you,  ye  elements,  with  unkindnessv ; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdoms^ ;  call'd  you  children' ; 
You  owe  me  no  subscription^ ;  why,  then,  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure^ :  here  I  stand — your  slave — 
A  poor\  infirm^,  weakr\  and  despised  old  man\ 

Virtue  is  of  intrinsic  valuex  and  good  desert" ;  hot  the  creature 
of  will',  but  necessary  and  immutable" ;  not  local",  or  temporary', 
but  of  equal  extent'  and  antiquity  with  the  divine  mind";  not  a 
mode  of  sensation",  but  everlasting  truth" ;  not  dependent  on  power', 
but  the  guide  of  all  power". 

"When  a  series  of  negative  sentences  concludes  a  paragraph,  the 
last  member  of  the  series  takes  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLE. 

In  death',  the  poor  man'  lays  down',  at  last',  the  burden  of  his 
wearisome  life".  No  more  shall  he  hear  the  insolent  calls  of  the 
master',  from  whom  he  received  his  scanty  wages\  No  more  shall 
he  be  raised  from  needful  slumber  on  his  bed  of  straw'  nor  be  hur- 
ried away  from  his  homely  meal",  to  undergo  the  repeated  labors 
of  the  day". 

A  concession  or  admission  takes  the  rising  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

Painting',  poetry',  eloquence',  and  every  other  art,  on  which  the 
genius  of  mankind  has  exercised  itself,  may  be  abused',  and  prove 
dangerous  in  the  hands  of  bad  men" ;  but  it  were  ridiculous  to  con- 
tend', that,  on  this  account',  they  ought  to  be  abolished". 

One'  may  bo  a  speaker',  both  of  much  reputation',  and  much  in- 


30  INFLECTION. 

fluence',  in  the  calm',  argumentative  manner" ;  to  attain  the  pathetic' 
and  the  sublime  of  oratory',  requires  those  strong  sensibilities  of  mind', 
and  that  high  power  of  expression',  which  are  given  to  few\ 

A  parenthesis  should  be  read  more  quickly  and  in  a  lower  tone  of 
voice,  than  those  parts  of  the  sentence  which  precede  and  follow  it. 

EXAMPLES. 

Know  ye  not  brethren' — for  I  speak  to  them  that  know  the  law' 
— that  the  law'  hath  dominion  over  a  man'  as  long  as  he  liveth"  ? 

If  envious  people  were  to  ask  themselves',  whether  they  would 
exchange -their  situations  with  the  persons  envied'  (I  mean  their 
minds',  passions',  notions',  as  well  as  their  persons',  fortunes',  and 
dignities',)  I  believe  the  self-love  common  to  human  nature',  would, 
generally,  make  them  prefer  their  own  condition\ 

If  there's  a  God  above  us' — 

And  that  there  is',  all  nature  cries  aloud', 

Through  all  her  works" — He  must  delight  in  virtuev ; 

And  that  which  He'  delights'  in,  must  be  happy\ 

But  to  my  mind — though  I  am  native  here 

And  to  the  manner  born, — it  is  a  custom 

More  honored  in  the  breach  than  in  the  observance. 

SERIES. 

A  series  is  a  number  of  particulars,  immediately  following  one 
another,  whether  independent  (1),  or  having  one  common  refer- 
ence (2). 

EXAMPLES. 

(1)  The  wind  and  rain  are  overv ;  Calm  is  the  noonx  of  day :  The 
clouds  are  divided^  in  heaven  ;  Over  the  green  hills  flies  the  incon- 
stant sun' :  Bed  through  the  stony  vale  comes  down  the  stream  of 
the  hill\ 

(2)  The  characteristics  of  chivalry  were— valor',  humanity',  cour- 
tesy', justice',  and  honor\ 

"When  the. members  of  a  series  consist  of  several  words,  as  in  the 
former  example,  the  series  is  called  compound;  when  of  single 
words,  as  in  the  latter,  it  is  called  simple. 

When  a  series  begins  a  sentence,  but  does  not  end  it,  it  is  called  a 
commencing  series ;  when  it  ends  it,  whether  it  begins  it  or  not,  it  is 
called  a  concluding  series. 

COMMENCING   SERIES. 

Each  particular  of  a  commencing  series  takes  the  rising  inflection 


INFLECTION.  81 

— with  this  special  observance,  that  the  last  particular  must  have  a 
greater  degree  of  inflection,  thereby  intimating  that  the  enumeration 
is  finished. 

EXAMPLES. 

Beauty',  strength',  youth',  and  old  age",  lie  undistinguished,  in  the 
same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter\ 

Hatred',  malice',  and  anger",  are  passions  unbecoming  a  disciple  of 
Christ\ 

Regulation',  proportion',  order',  and  color",  contribute  to  grandeur 
1  as  to  beauty  \ 

CONCLUDING  SERIES. 

Each  particular  of  a  concluding  series,  except  the  last,  takes  the 
rising  inflection.  The  particular  preceding  the  last  requires  a  greater 
degree  of  the  rising  inflection  than  the  others,  thereby  intimating, 
that  the  next  particular  will  close  the  enumeration.  The  last  is 
pronounced  with  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

They,  through  faith,  subdued  kingdoms',  wrought  righteousness' ; 
obtained  promises',  stopped  the  mouths  of  lions',  quenched  the  vio- 
lence of  fire',  escaped  the  edge  of  the  sword',  out  of  weakness  were 
made  strong',  waxed  valiant  in  fight",  and  turned  to  flight  the  armies 
of  the  aliens'. 

Where'er  he  tarns',  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye : 
His  suppliants  scorn  him',  and  his  followers  flyr ; 
Now,  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state', 
The  golden  canopy',  the  glittering  plate', 
The  regal  palace',  the  luxurious  board', 
The  liv'ried  army",  and  the  menial  lord. 

Note. — I  have  given  a  somewhat  elaborated  exposition  of  the  Rules 
which  govern  ARTICULATION  and  INFLECTION. — As  these  two  impor- 
tant branches  of  Elocutionary  Study  are  definite  and  positive— on  the 
divisions  of  EMPHASIS  and  MODULATION — so  much  must  be  left  to 
that  higher,  or  more  philosophical  department  of  the  art,  which  is 
drawn  from  a  careful  analysis  of  the  meaning  of  language  and  the 
adapting  of  modulated  sounds  to  the  sense,  that  I  shall  confine 
myself  to  a  few  essential  general  rules,  rather  than  follow  out  any 
system  of  elaborated  Artificial  Instruction. 


32  EMPHASIS. 


EMPHASIS. 

EMPHASIS  is  that  stronger,  fuller  sound  of  the  voice  by  which,  in 
reading  or  speaking,  we  distinguish  the  accented  syllable  of  words 
on  which  we  design  to  throw  particular  stress,  in  order  to  show  how 
they  affect  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  On  the  right  management 
of  Emphasis  depend  the  whole  life  and  spirit  of  delivery :  false 
emphasis  perverts  the  meaning  of  language,  feeble  emphasis  is  in-- 
effective, and  emphasis  overdone  is  repulsive  to  good  taste. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  emphasis : — 

1.  Emphasis  of  sense — governed  by  inflection  proper  to  the  sen- 
tence. 

2.  Emphasis  offeree — always  made  with  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES   IX  EMPHASIS. 

Of  Sense. 

Did  you  walk  home  to-day  ? 

/ 
Did  you  walk  home  to-day  ? 

Did  you  walk  home  to-day? 
Did  you  walk  home  to-day  ? 


Did  you  walk  home  to-day  ? 
Of  Force. 
you  be  so  cruel? 


Could 


\ 
Could  you  be  so  cruel  ? 

I  Did  not  say  so. 

EXAMPLE    OF  ACCUMULATED  EMPHASIS. 

I  tell  you  I  will  not  do  it ;  nothing  on  earth  shall  persuade  me. 


EMPHASIS.  33 

Exclamations  and  interjections  require  impassioned,  impressive 
emphasis. 

Every  new  incident  in  a  narrative,  each  particular  object  in  de- 
scription, and  each  new  subject  in  passages,  should  he  marked  with 
distinctive  emphatic  stress. 

Corresponding  and  antithetical  words  should  be  emphatic:  when 
contrasted  or  compared,  the  objects  of  greater  importance  should  be 
given  with  stronger  emphatic  stress  with  t\iQ  falling  inflection — the 
less  important  ones  with  the  rising  inflection. 

When  greater  force  is  desired  in  the  delivery  of  a  particular 
phrase,  every  word  and  even  parts  of  compound  words,  are  given 
with  emphatic  expression. 

A  climax  gradually  ascends  in  expression  to  its  close. 

EXAMPLE. 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  virtuous  and  good,  because  that  is  to  excel 
many  others';  it  is  pleasant  to  grow  better,  because  that  is  to  excel 
ourselves';  it  is  pleasant  to  mortify  and  subdue  our  lusts,  because 
that  is  victory';  it  is  pleasant  to  command  our  appetites'  and  pas- 
sions', and  to  keep  them  in  due  order',  within  the  bounds  of  reason 
and  religion",  because  that  is  empire\ 

See,  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow ! 
Hyperion's  curls';  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars',  to  threaten  and  command'; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury", 
New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill\ 
A  combination'  and  a  form'  indeed, 
Where  every  god'  did  seem  to  set  his  seal", 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man\ 

An  anti-climax  should  be  read  with  decreasing  energy,  as  you 
proceed ;  until  the  last  member,  being  strongly  emphatic,  takes  a 
fall  instead  of  a  rise. 

EXAMPLE. 

What  must  the  king  do  nowv?  must  he  submit'? 
The  king  shall  do  itv:  must  he  be  depos'd'? 
The  king  shall  be  contented^:  must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king'? — let  it  goM 
Til  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads^; 
My  gorgeous  palace'  for  a  hermitage^; 
2* 


84:  EMPHASIS. 

My  gay  apparel',  for  an  almsman's  gownx; 
My  figur'd  goblets',  for  a  dish  of  woodv; 
My  sceptre',  for  a  painter's  walking  staff v; 
My  subjects',  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints\- 
And  my  large  kingdom',  for  a  little  graved — 
A  little',  little  gravex — an  obscure  grave\ 

Repetition  requires  high  rising  inflection,  acquiring  fresh  intensity 
from  the  iteration,  as —  :' 

Tell  them  I  grieve  not  for  my  death — 
Grieve  ! — Ours  hath  been  a  race  of  steel ; 

Steadfast  and  stern — yea,  fixed  in  faith, 
Though  doom'd  Power's  scourge  to  feel. 

What  motive,  then,  could  have  such  influence  in  their  bosomv? 
"What  motive'?  That'  which  Nature,  the  common  parent',  plants  in 
the  bosom  of  man\  and  which,  though  it  may  be  less  active  in  the 
Indian'  than  in  the  Englishman',  is  still  congenial  with'  and  makes 
part  of  his  being\ 

Banish'd  from  Rome  ?     What's  lanisli'd"  but  set  free 
From  daily  contact  of  the  things  I  loathe  ? 

Circumflex,  or  wave,  is  a  species  of  emphasis  which  combines  the 
rising  and  falling  inflection  on  the  same  word.  It  is  used  in  the 
tones  of  mockery  and  irony,  and  to  mark  a  peculiar  or  double 
meaning. 

EXAMPLES. 

Yes;  they  will  give  enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are 
themselves  the  slaves  of  passion',  avarice",  and  pride\ 

Queen.    Hamlet,  you  have  your  father  much  offended. 

/  \ 

Hamlet.    Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 

/  // 

Most  courteous  tyrants!  Romans,!  rare  patterns  of  humanity ! 

/  \ 

If  you  said  so,  then  I  said  so. 

Monotone. — When  words  are  not  varied  by  inflection,  they  are 
said  to  be  pronounced  in  a  Monotone.  This  is  used  when  any  thing 
awful  or  sublime  is  to  be  expressed. 


35 


EXAMPLE. 

O  when  he  comes', 

Rons'  d  by  the  cry  of  wickedness  extreme', 
To  heaven  ascending  from  some  guilty  land', 
Now,  ripe  for  vengeance*1;  when  he  comes,  arrayed 
In  all  the  terrors  of  Almighty  wrath',  — 
Fortli  from  his  bosom  plucks  his  lingering  arm', 
And  on  the  miscreants  pours  destruction  down", 
Who  can  abide  his  coming^?     Who  can  bear 
His  whole  displeasure^? 

JTigh  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus,  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  east,  with  richest  hand, 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric,  pearls  and  gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat  ! 


36  MODULATION. 


MODULATION. 

MODULATION  is  the  giving  to  each  tone  of  the  voice  its  appro- 
priate character  and  expression — so  as  to  produce  a  grateful  melody 
to  the  ear. 

According  to  the  subject  the  time  of  modulation  should  be  regu- 
lated. Narration  proceeds  equally;  the  pathetic  slowly;  instruc- 
tion, authoritatively ;  determination,  with  vigor ;  and  passion  with 
rapidity. 

The  voice  is  defined  as  capable  of  assuming  three  keys,  the  low, 
the  high  and  middle,  or  conversational  key,  and  to  acquire  the  power 
of  ranging  in  these  with  varieties  of  degrees  of  loudness,  softness, 
stress,  continuity  and  rapidity — I  recommend  the  practice  upon  the 
elementary  sounds  of  LETTEES  and  SYLLABLES,  and  the  examples 
afforded  under  the  head  of  INFLECTION.  Instructions  in  these  partic- 
u/ars  can  only  be  efficiently  carried  out,  under  a  capable  teacher. 
The  following  characteristics  of  varied  modulation  will  be  found 
useful  to  the  student. 

EXAMPLES. 

ADOEATION,  ADMIRATION,  SOLEMNITY,  SUBLIMITY,  are  governed  by 
low,  loud,  slow  tones. 

Mournfulness,  Despondency — by  low,  soft,  tremulous  tones. 

Fear,  without  guilt — by  low,  soft,  tremulous  tones. 

Fear,  with  guilt — very  low,  slow  tones. 

Deep  emotion — low,  quick  and  broken  tones. 

Conversational  voice — is  light,  and  of  moderate  time. 

Dignity — loud  and  slow  tones. 

Earnestness — loud,  middle  tone. 

Revenge — loud,  aspirated. 

Courage— high,  loud  and  slow. 

In  the  practice  of  reading,  these  varieties  of  expressive  modulation 
can  be  better  understood,  and  the  attention  directed  to  a  more 
natural  management  of  the  tones,  than  by  taking  isolated  passages 
for  practice.  Exaggeration  and  artificial  tones  are  too  frequently 
acquired,  where  modulation  is  practised  upon  the  latter  method. 

Imitative  modulation  is  a  great  power  in  the  hands  of  a  skilful 
speaker  or  reader.  It  marks  the  reader's  appreciation  of  the  sense 
and  beauty  of  a  passage.  In  poetic  reading  and  recitation,  this 
branch  of  elocutionary  art  is  especially  desirable  to  attain. 


MODULATION.  37 

Immensity,  Sublimity — are  expressed  by  a  prolongation  and  swell 
of  the  voice. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll, 
Ten  tLo&sand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain. 

Motion  and  sound,  in  all  their  modifications,  are,  in  descriptive 
reading,  more  or  less  imitated. 

To  glide,  to  drive,  to  swell,  to  flow,  to  skip,  to  whirl,  to  turn,  to 
run,  to  rattle,  etc.,  all  partake  of  a  peculiar  modification  of  the  voice, 
which  expresses  imitation. 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 

PAUSES. 

Pauses  are  of  consequence  to  a  correct  rendering  of  sense.  They 
are  of  two  kinds,  first  emphatical  pauses ;  and  next,  such  as  mark 
distinctions  of  sense.  An  emphatical  pause  is  made  after  something 
has  been  said  of  peculiar  meaning,  but  the  most  frequent  use  of 
s  is,  to  mark  the  divisions  of  sense,  and  to  allow  the  speaker 
to  draw  breath.  By  practising  the  pupil  on  the  method  of  suspend- 
ing the  tone  on  elementary  sounds  of  words,  and  then  to  gather  the 
breath  sufficiently  to  carry  a  long  sentence  to  its  final  completion 
would  entirely  eradicate  the  vicious  habit  of  dividing  words  having 
an  intimate  relation  to  each  other,  by  which  sense  is  destroyed,  and 
the  force  of  emphasis  is  entirely  lost  by  divisions  being  made  in  the 
wrong  place. 


CLOSING  EEMAEKS. 

The  foregoing  compilation  of  elementary  and  strictly  essential 
rules  will  assist  in  the  formation  of  a  correct,  impressive  and  natural 
style  of  reading.  Much,  however,  must  depend  upon  the  cultivation 
of  an  intellectual  and  sympathetic  appreciation  of  the  sense  and 
beauty  of  language  in  all  its  varieties  of  sentiment,  emotion  and 
passion.  It  is  in  these  all-important  points  of  elocutionary  instruc- 
tion, that  the  capable  and  intelligent  Teacher  is  needed,  to  develop 
and  quicken  the  perceptions  of  the  pupil.  With  such  teaching  the 
result  would  be  a  much  more  natural  style  of  reading  and  speaking 
than  now  obtains  in  schools  or  in  society. 


HE 

UNIVERSITY 

r<  *  . 


THE   LADIES'   READER, 


EXAMPLES   FOR  PRACTICE  IN  READING  AND 
RECITATION. 

FEMALE  EDUCATIOX.-JPDGE  STOEY. 

IF  Christianity  may  be  said  to  have  given  a  permanent  eleva- 
tion to  woman,  as  an  intellectual  and  moral  being,  it  is  as  true, 
that  the  present  age,  above  all  others,  has  given  play  to  her 
genius,  and  taught  us  to  reverence  its  influence.  It  was  the 
fashion  of  other  times  to  treat  the  literary  acquirements  of  the 
sex,  as  starched  pedantry,  or  vain  pretension;  to  stigmatize 
tin-in  as  inconsistent  with  those  domestic  affections  and  virtues, 
which  constitute  the  charm  of  society.  We  had  abundant 
homilies  read  upon  their  amiable  weaknesses  and  sentimental 
delicacy,  upon  their  timid  gentleness  and  submissive  depend- 
ence ;  as  if  to  taste  the  fruit  of  knowledge  were  a  deadly  sin, 
and  ignorance  were  the  sole  guardian  of  innocence.  Their 
whole  lives  were  "sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought;" 
and  concealment  of  intellectual  power  was  often  resorted  to,  to 
escape  the  dangerous  imputation  of  masculine  strength. 

In  the  higher  walks  of  life,  the  satirist  was  not  without  color 
for  the  suggestion,  that  it  was — 

"A  youth  of  folly,  an  old  ago  of  cards;" 

and  that,  elsewhere,  "most  women  had  no  character  at  all," 
beyond  that  of  purity  and  devotion  to  their  families.  Admi- 
rable as  are  these  qualities,  it  seemed  an  abuse  of  the  gifts  of 
Providence,  to  deny  to  mothers  the  power  of  instructing  their 
children,  to  wives  the  privilege  of  sharing  the  intellectual  pur- 
suits of  their  husbands,  to  sisters  and  daughters  the  delight  of 
ministering  knowledge  in  the  fireside  circle,  to  youth  and  beauty 
the  charm  of  refined  sense,  to  age  and  infirmity  the  consolation 
of  studies  which  elevate  the  soul,  and  gladden  the  listless  hours 
of  despondency. 

These  things  have  in  a  great  measure,  passed  away.     Tho 


40  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

prejudices  which  dishonored  the  sex,  have  yielded  to  the  influ- 
ence of  truth.  By  slow,  but  sure  advances,  education  has  ex- 
tended itself  through  all  ranks  of  female  society.  There  is  no 
longer  any  dread,  lest  the  culture  of  science  should  foster  that 
masculine  boldness,  or  restless  independence,  which  alarms  by 
its  sallies  or  wounds  by  its  inconsistencies.  We  have  seen  that 
here,  as  everywhere  else,  knowledge  is  favorable  to  human  vir- 
tue and  human  happiness;  that  the  refinement  of  literature 
adds  lustre  to  the  devotion  of  piety ;  that  true  learning,  like 
true  taste,  is  modest  and  unostentatious ;  that  grace  of  manners 
receives  a  higher  polish  from  the  discipline  of  the  schools ;  that 
cultivated  genius  sheds  a  cheering  light  over  domestic  duties, 
and  its  very  sparkles,  like  those  of  the  diamond,  attest  at  once 
its  power  and  its  purity. 

There  is  not  a  rank  of  female  society,  however  high,  which 
does  not  now  pay  homage  to  literature,  or  that  would  not  blush, 
even  at  the  suspicion  of  that  ignorance,  which,  a  half  century 
ago,  was  neither  uncommon  nor  discreditable.  There  is  not  a 
parent,  whose  pride  may  not  glow  at  the  thought,  that  his 
daughter's  happiness  is,  in  a  great  measure,  within  her  own 
command,  whether  she  keeps  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life, 
or  visits  the  busy  walks  of  fashion. 

A  new  path  is  thus  opened  for  female  exertion,  to  alleviate 
the  pressure  of  misfortune,  without  any  supposed  sacrifice  of 
dignity,  or  modesty.  Man  no  longer  aspires  to  an  exclusive 
dominion  in  authorship.  He  has  rivals,  or  allies,  in  almost 
every  department  of  knowledge ;  and  they  are  to  be  found 
among  those,  whose  elegance  of  manners,  and  blamelessness  of 
life,  command  his  respect,  as  much  as  their  talents  excite  hia 
admiration. 


THE  WIPE.— WASHINGTON  IBVINQ. 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude  with 
which  women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of  for- 
tune. Those  disasters  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a  man 
and  prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the  ener- 
gies of  the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  elevation 
to  their  character,  that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity. 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  to  behold  a  soft  and  ten- 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  41 

der  female,  who  had  been  all  weakness  and  dependence,  and 
alive  to  every  trivial  roughness  while  treading  the  prosperous 
paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in  mental  force  to  be  the  comforter 
and  supporter  of  her  husband  under  misfortune,  and  abiding 
with  unshrinking  firmness,  the  bitterest  blast  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage  about 
the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  in  sunshine,  will,  when  the  hardy 
plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its  caress- 
ndrils  ami  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs;  so  is  it  beauti- 
fully ordered  by  Providence,  that  woman,  who  is  the  mere  de- 
nt and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier  hours,  should  be 
iv  and  solace  when  smitten  with  sudden  calamity;  wind- 
ing her>clf  int->  tin-  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  sup- 
porting the  drooping  head,  and  binding  up  the  broken  heart. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story,  of 
which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had 
married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  mid-t  of  t'ashionaMe  life.  She  had,  it  is  true,  no  for- 
tune, but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample;  and  he  delighted  in  the 
anticipation  of  indulging  her  in  every  elegant  pursuit,  and  ad- 
ministering to  those  delicate  tastes  and  fancies  that  spread  a  kind 
of  witchery  about  the  sex.  "Her  life,"  said  he,  "shall  belike 
a  fairy  tale." 

It  wa-   th.-   mi-fortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have  em- 
d  his  propertv  in  large  speculations;   and  he  had  not  been 
married  many  months  \\h"ii,  by  a  succession   of  sudden  disas- 
•.',  ej.t    fr-'in    him,  and    ho  found   himself  reduced 
almost  to  penury.      For  a  lime  lie  kept  his  situation  to  himself, 
and  went   about  with   a    haggard   countenance  and  a  breaking 
lieart.    His  life  was  but  a  protracted  agony;  and  what  rendered 
it  more  insupportable,  was  the  keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  wit'e ;  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm 
her  with  the  news.     She  saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of 
affection,  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.     She  marked  his  al- 
tered looks  and  stifled  sighs,  and  was  not  to  be  deceived  by  his 
sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheerfulness.     She  tasked  all  her 
jitly  powers  and  tender  blandishments  to  win  him  back  to 
happiness;  but  she  only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul, 
-aw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing  was  the 
thought   that   he    wa-   BOOB    to    make   her  wretched.     A  little 
while,  thought  h",  and  the  smile  will  vanish  from  the  cheek— 
the   <i.ng  will  die   away   from   those  lips — the  lustre  of  those 
eyes  will  be  quenched  with  sorrow ;  and  the  happy  heart  which 


42  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom  will  be  weighed  down  like  mine 
by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day  and  related  his  whole  situ- 
ation in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When  I  heard  him 
through,  I  inquired,  "  Does  your  wife  know  all  this  ?"  At  the 
question  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  "  For  God's  sake  !" 
cried  he,  "  if  you  have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  mention  my  wife  ; 
it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives  me  almost  to  madness  !" 

"  And  why  not  ?"  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it  sooner  or  later ; 
you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelligence  may 
break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than  if  imparted  by 
yourself;  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften  the  harshest 
tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of  the  comforts  of 
her  sympathy ;  and  not  merely  that,  but  also  endangering  the 
only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together — an  unreserved  com- 
munity of  thought  and  feeling.  She  will  soon  perceive  that 
something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your  mind ;  and  true  love 
will  not  brook  reserve ;  it  feels  undervalued  and  outraged,  when 
even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  concealed  from  it." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  friend !  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give  to 
all  her  future  prospects — how  I  am  to  strike  her  very  soul  to 
the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  beggar !  that  she 
is  to  forego  all  the  elegancies  of  life — all  the  pleasures  of  so- 
ciety— to  shrink  with  me  into  indigence  and  obscurity !  To 
tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  from  the  sphere  in  which 
she  might  have  continued  to  move  in  constant  brightness — the 
light  of  every  eye — the  admiration  of  every  heart ! — how  can 
she  bear  poverty  ?  she  has  been  brought  up  in  all  the  refine- 
ment of  opulence.  How  can  she  bear  neglect?  she  has  been 
the  idol  of  society.  Oh,  it  will  break  her  heart — it  will  break 
her  heart !" 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its  flow ;  for 
sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.  When  his  paroxysm  had  sub- 
sided, and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resumed  the 
subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at  once  to 
his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  positively. 

".But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her  ?  It  is  necessary  she 
should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper  to  the  al- 
teration of  your  circumstances.  You  must  change  your  style 
of  living  —  —  nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his  coun- 
tenance, "  don't  let  that  afflict  you.  I  am  sure  you  have  never 
placed  your  happiness  in  outward  show — you  have  yet  friends, 
warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you  for  being 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  43 

less  splendidly  lodged  ;  and  surely  it  does  not  require  a  palace 
to  be  happy  with  Mary  —  " 

"I  could  be  happy  with  her,"  cried  he,  convulsively,  "in  a 
hovel  !  I  could  go  down  with  her  into  poverty  and  the  dust  !  — 
I  could  —  I  could  --  God  bless  her!  —  God  bless  her!"  criod 
he,  bursting  into  a  transport  of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"  And,  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up  and  grasp- 
ing  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "believe  me  she  can  be  the  same 
with  you.  Ay,  more  :  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride  and  triumph 
to  her  —  it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies  and  fervent  sym- 
pathies of  her  nature  ;  for  she  will  rejoice  to  prove  that  she 
loves  you  for  yourself.  There  is  in  every  true  woman's  heart  a 
spark  of  heavenly  fire  which  lies  dormant  in  the  broad  daylight 
of  prosperity;  but  which  kindles  up  and  beams  and  blazes  in 
lli"  -lark  hour  of  adversity.  No  man  knows  what  the  wife  of 
his  bosom  is  —  no  man  knows  what  a  ministering  angel  she  is  — 
until  he  has  gone  with  her  through  the  fiery  trials  of  this 
woiH." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner  and 
the  figurative  style  of  my  language  that  caught  the  excited 
imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had  to  deal  with; 
and  following  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I  finished  by  per- 
suading him  to  go  home  and  unburden  his  sad  heart  to  his 


I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I  felt  some  lit- 
tle solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate  on  the  forti- 
tude of  one  whose  whole  life  has  been  a  round  of  pleasures? 
II"i-  toy  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark  downward  path  of  low 
humility  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and  might  cling  to 
the  sunny  regions  in  which  they  had  hitherto  revelled.  Be- 
.  ruin  in  fashionable  life  is  accompanied  by  so  many  galling 
mortifications,  to  which  in  other  ranks  it  is  a  stranger.  In  short, 
I  could  not  meet  Leslie  the  next  morning  without  trepidation. 
Hf.  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"  And  how  did  she  bear  it?" 

"  Like  an  angel  !     It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her  mind, 

for  she  threw  her  arras  round  my  neck  and  asked  if  this  was  all 

that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy.     But,  poor  girl,"  added  he, 

cannot  realize  the  change  we  must  undergo.     She  has  no 

idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract;  she  has  only  read  of  it  in 

poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love.     She  feels  as  yet  no  priva- 

tion; she  suffers  no  loss  of  accustomed  conveniences  nor  elegan- 

When  we  come  practically  to  experience  its  sordid  cares, 


44  THE  LADIES'  KEADER. 

its  paltry  wants,  its  petty  humiliations — then  will  be  the  real 

"But,"  said  I,  "now  that  you  have  got  over  the  severest 
task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner  you  let  the  world 
into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be  mortifying ; 
but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over:  whereas,  you 
otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day.  It  is 
not  poverty  so  much  as  pretence  that  harasses  a  ruined  man — 
the  struggle  between  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty  purse — the 
keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come  to  an  end. 
Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor,  and  you  disarm  poverty  of  its 
sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie  perfectly  pre- 
pared. He  had  no  false  pride  himself,  and  as  to  his  wife,  she 
was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered  fortunes. 

Some  days  afterward,  he  called  upon  me  in  the  evening.  He 
had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house,  and  taken  a  small  cottage  in 
the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  He  had  been  busied  all 
day  in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new  establishment  required 
few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest  kind.  All  the  splendid 
furniture  of  his  late  residence  had  been  sold,  excepting  his  wife's 
harp.  That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the  idea 
of  herself;  it  belonged  to  the  little  story  of  their  loves :  for 
some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of  their  courtship  were  those 
when  he  had  leaned  over  that  instrument,  and  listened  to  the 
melting  tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  in- 
stance of  romantic  gallantry  in  a  doting  husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage  where  his  wife  had 
been  all  day  superintending  its  arrangement.  My  feelings  had 
become  strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  this  family  story, 
and,  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany  him. 

He  was  Avearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and,  as  we  walked 
out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

"  Poor  Mary !"  at  length  broke  with  a  heavy  sigh  from  his 
lips. 

"  And  what  of  her  ?"  asked  I :  "  has  any  thing  happened  to 
her  ?" 

"  What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "  is  it  nothing 
to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to  be  caged  in  a  miser- 
able cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  menial  con- 
cerns of  her  wretched  habitation  ?" 

"  Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change  ?" 

"Repined!  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good 
humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  have  ever 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  45 

known  her;  she  has  been  to  me  all  iove,  and  tenderness,  and 
comfort !" 

"Admirable  girl!"  exclaimed  I.     "You  call  yourself  poor, 
my  friend ;  you  never  were  so  rich — you  nevci  knew  tne  bound- 
:vasure  of  excellence  you  possessed  in  that  woman." 

"  Oh  !  but  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage  were 
over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortab.e.  But  this  is  her  first 
day  of  real  experience;  she  has  been  introduced  into  an  hum- 
ble dwelling — she  has  been  employed  ai.  day  in  arranging  its 
miserable  equipments — she  has,  for  the  first  time,  known  the 
fatigues  of  domestic  employment — she  has,  for  the  first  time, 
fooked  round  her  on  a  home  destitute  of  every  thing  elegant, 
almost  of  every  thing  convenient;  and  may  now  be  sitting  down, 
exhausted  and  spiritless,  brooding  over  a  prospect  of  future  pov- 
erty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that  I  could 
not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

r  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow  lane,  so  thickly 
shaded  with  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of  seclusion, 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble  enough  in  its 
appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and  yet  it  had  a  pleas- 
•••iral  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one  end  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  foliage ;  a  few  trees  threw  their  branches  gracefully 
over  it ;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of  flowers  tastefully  dis- 
posed about  the  door  and  on  the  grass-plat  in  front.  A  small 
wicket  gate  opened  upon  a  footpath  that  wound  through  some 
shrubbery  at  the  door.  Just  as  we  approached,  we  heard  the 
sound  of  music — Leslie  grasped  my  arm ;  we  paused  and  lis- 
tened. It  was  Mary's  voice,  singing,  in  a  style  of  the  most 
touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which  her  husband  was  pecul- 
iarly fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  forward 
to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a  noise  on  the  gravel 
walk.  A  bright,  beautiful  lace  glanced  out  at  the  window  and 
vanished — a  light  footstep  was  heard — and  Mary  came  tripping 
ibrth  to  meet  us;  she  was  in  a  pretty  rural  dress  of  white;  a 
tew  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in  her  fine  hair ;  a  fresh  bloom 
was  on  her  cheek ;  her  whole  countenance  beamed  with  smiles 
— I  had  never  seen  her  look  so  lovely. 

u  My  dear  (J.M.r^c,"  cried  she,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are  come! 
I  have  been  wat'-hing  and  watching  for  you,  and  running  down 
tin-,  lane  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set  out  a  table  under  a 
beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage;  and  I've  been  gathering  some 


46  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

of  the  most  delicious  strawberries,  for  I  know  you  are  fond  of 
them — and  we  have  such  excellent  cream — and  we  have  every 
thing  so  sweet  and  still  here.  Oh  !"  said  she,  putting  her  arm 
within  his  and  looking  up  brightly  in  his  face,  "  oh,  we  shall  be 
so  happy !" 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.  He  caught  her  to  his  bosom — 
he  folded  his  arms  round  her — he  kissed  her  again  and  again — 
he  could  not  speak,  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes;  and  he 
has  often  assured  me  that  though  the  world  has  since  gone 
prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has  indeed  been  a  happy 
one,  yet  never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  of  more  exquisite 
felicitv. 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN— WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Thou  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand'st, 
The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets  strive 
To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 
Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 
That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
"When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  north,  a  path 
Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 
With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 


THE  LADIES'  RE  AD  MR. 

With  tho  thick  moss  of  centuries,  and  there 
Of  chalky  whiteness,  where  the  thunderbolt 

splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 

re  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray  wall, 

tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 
Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 
Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 
Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 
Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 
Is  lovely  round ;  a  beautiful  river  there 

:nid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  ho  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  tho  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

A-ell  upward  to  the  hills ;  beyond, 
Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 
The  mighty  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  gray  old  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love, 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 

:ne  in  tho  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid, 

•f  tho  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tn.-ssi.-s,  ;i  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin  door 
Tho  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 

a  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Too  near  of  kin,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
•:iplf  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 
•  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
.mess,  and  the  gray  old  men  that  passed 
.veiling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  l««»l;n 

like  tho  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said 
Upon  tho  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 

!  tiled  the  grape  and  startled  tho  wild  shades 
With  sounds  of  mirth.     Tho  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other  as  they  saw 

.  asting  form,  and  say,  the  girl  will  die. 
One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 

poured  her  griefs.     Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone, 
She  said,  for  I  have  told  theo,  all  my  love, 
And  guilt,  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  tho  morn 


48  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

Glares  on  me  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Have  an  unnatural  horror  in  mine  ear. 
In  dreams  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes  ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die. 

It  was  a  Summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.     About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshipers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Doth  walk  on  the  high  places,  and  affect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 
To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends  sat  them  down 
And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 
To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 
Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 
Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 
And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 
Ran  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 
And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.     There  was  scooped, 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave ; 
And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
"With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 
"With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 
And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 
Built  up  a  single  monument,  a  cone 
Of  small,  loose  stones.     Thenceforward,  all  who  passed. 
Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 
In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 
To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 
Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 
The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 
Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


THE  LADIES1  UEADEli.  49 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.-LoNGFELLow. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 

Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 
"When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  treo 

In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 

This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 
On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  Eve : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  I" 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending; 
When  lol  a  merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 

i  one  wiih  her  attendant  swain, 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain ; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  heaven  had  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 

Together  blending, 

And  soon  descending 

The  narrow  sweep 

Of  the  hill-side  steep, 

They  wind  aslant 

Towards  Saint  Amant, 

Through  leafy  alleys 

Of  verdurous  vallies 

With  merry  sallies, 

Singing  their  chant : 

"The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  1" 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  I 

The  sky  was  blue ;  without  one  cloud  of  gloom, 
The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 

And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A  rustic  bridal,  ah  1  how  sweet  it  is  1 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
3 


50  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 
A  band  of  maidens, 
Gayly  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest  and 

merriest ; 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries : 
"  Those  who  catch  me 
Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be!" 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 


Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 

That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedetb  a  fall  ? 
0,  no  I  for  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 
Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  I 

What  lovers !  they  give  not  a  single  caress ! 

To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 
These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 

What  ails  Baptiste  ?  what  grief  doth  him  oppress  ? 

It  is,  that,  half  way  up  the  hill, 
In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a  veteran  old ; 
And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 
That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 
Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 
And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 
Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared ; 
For  them  the  altar  was  prepared ; 
But  alas !  the  summer's  blight, 
The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 


TFIE    I, A I> IKS'  READER.  51 

The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 

All  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged. 
Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  fled ; 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 
"Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate ! 

Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane !  "    And  by  a  fountain's  side 
A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears, 
And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 

Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 

She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain ; 

She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
"\Venra  a  countenance  severe, 
And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
AVho,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
"When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 

with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand, 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say: — 
'•  Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  1 
Lest,  when  thou  weddest  this  false  bridegroom, 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  I  " 
And  she  was  silent;  and  the  maidens  fair 
from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear ; 
But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain? 
.  lened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again ; 
The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear ; 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies, 
They  sang  the  refrain : — 

"The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom. 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day !  " 


52  THE   LADIES'  HEADER. 

[Margaret,  the  Blind  Girl,  learns  that  Baptiste  Is  to  be  married  to  Angela ;  grief- 
etricken  at  the  intelligence,  she  determines  to  be  present  at  the  wedding.] 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 
And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently ! 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 

Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 

And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 

Looks  at  herself  and  cannot  rest. 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 

Has  neither  crown  nor  flowers'  perfume ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 

That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 
And,  'neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye, 

Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

'Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor, 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
"0  God!  forgive  me  now!  " 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 

Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand, 

Towards  the  church,  through  paths  unscanned, 

"With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 
Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 

Eound  her  at  times  exhale, 
And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 
Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 
And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A  little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded  there; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 

"Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by! " 
Thus  Margaret  said.     "  Where  are  we  ?  we  ascend !  " 


THE  LADIES'   HEADER. 

"  Yes;  seest  thou  not  our  journey's  end? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  cry? 
The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know  1 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

4  0  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low ; 
Take  care  of  Paul;  I  feel  that  I  am  dying!' 
And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying? 
Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud ; 
And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave ;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set ; 
Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret  ? 

Come  in  1  the  bride  will  be  here  soon : 
Thou  tremblest  1    0  my  God !  thou  art  going  to  swoon  1 " 
She  could  no  more, — the  blind  girl,  weak  and  weary  I 
A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  dreary, 
"What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter?  "  and  she  started, 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  ever  more 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door ; 
And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 

Touches  the  crown  of  filigrano 

Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 

No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 

She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed, 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night, 

They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell. 
With  booming  sound, 
Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  and  down  the  dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 

For  lo  1  Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 

Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning,  ^. 

Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning,  ff 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis ; 

To  be  a  bride  is  all  I  •  -The  pretty  lisper 

Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whisper, 

41  How  beautiful  1  how  beautiful  she  is  1 " 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 
For  already  the  Mass  is  said ; 
At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest; 
The  wedding  ring  is  blessed;  Baptiste  receives  it; 


THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it. 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 
'Tis  spoken ;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side 
"  'Tis  he !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath, 
Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see  ! 
"Baptiste,"  she  said,  "since  thou  hast  wished  my  death, 
As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !  " 
And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 

For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 
The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air; 
Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  church-yard  forth  they  bear ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
No,  ah  no !  for  each  one  seemed  to  say : — 

"  The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  home ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away ! 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to-day !  " 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.-JARED  SPARKS. 

IN  many  respects  the  history  of  North  America  differs  from 
that  of  every  other  country,  arid  in  this  difference  it  possesses  an 
interest  peculiar  to  itself,  especially  for  those  whose  lot  has  been 
cast  here,  and  who  look  back  with  a  generous  pride  to  the  deeds 
of  ancestors,  by  whom  a  nation's  existence  has  been  created, 
and  a  nation's  glory  adorned.  We  shall  speak  of  this  history, 
as  divided  into  two  periods}  the  colonial  and  the  revolutionary. 

When  we  talk  of  the  history  of  our  country,  we  are  not  to  be 
understood  as  alluding  to  any  particular  book,  or  to  the  labors 
of  any  man,  or  number  of  men,  in  treating  this  subject.  If  we 
have  a  few  compilations  of  merit,  embracing  detached  portions 
and  limited  periods,  there  is  yet  wanting  a  work,  the  writer  of 
which  shall  undertake  the  task  of  plodding  his  way  through  all 
the  materials,  printed  and  in  manuscript,  and  digesting  them 
into  a  united,  continuous,  lucid  and  philosophical  whole,  bear- 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  55 

ing  the  shape,  and  containing  the  substance  of  genuine  history. 
No  tempting  encouragement,  it  is  true,  has  been  held  out  to 
such  an  enterprise.  The  absorbing  present,  in  the  midst  of  our 
stirring  politics  and  jarring  party  excitements,  and  bustling  ac- 
tivity, has  almost  obliterated  the  past,  or  at  least  has  left  little 
leisure  for  pursuing  the  footsteps  of  the  pilgrims,  and  the  devi- 
ous fortunes  of  our  ancestors.  The  public  taste  has  run  in  other 
directions,  and  no  man  of  genius  and  industry  has  been  found 
so  courageous  in  his  resolves,  or  prodigal  of  his  labor,  as  to 
his  life  in  digging  into  mines  for  treasures  which  would 
cost  him  much  and  avail  him  little.  But  symptoms  of  a  change 
are  beginning  to  appear,  which  it  may  be  hoped  will  ere  long 
be  realize- 1. 

And  when  the  time  shall  come  for  illustrating  this  subject,  it 
will  be  discovered  that  there  arc  rich  stores  of  knowledge  among 
the  hi'ddcn  and  forgotten  records  of  our  colonial  history;  that 
the  men  of  those  days  thought  and  acted,  and  suffered  with  a 
wisdom,  a  fortitude,  and  an  endurance,  which  would  add  lustre 
:  and  that  they  have  transmitted  an  inheritance  as 
honorable;  in  the  mode  of  its  acquisition  as  it  is  dear  to  its 
present  possessors.  Notwithstanding  the  comparatively  discon- 
nected incidents  in  the  history  of  this  period,  and  the  separate 
communities  and  governments  to  which  it  extends,  it  has  never- 
theless a  unity  and  a  consistency  of  parts,  as  well  as  copious- 
ness of  events,  which  make  it  a  theme  for  the  most  gifted  his- 
torian, and  a  study  for  every  one  who  would  enlarge  his  knowl- 
and  profit  by  high  example. 

Tnlike  any  other  people,  who  have  attained  the  rank  of  a 
nation,  we  may  In  re  trace  our  country's  growth  to  the  very  ele- 
ments of  its  nriirin,  and  consult  the  testimonies  of  reality,  in- 
of  the  blind  oracles  of  fable,  and  the  legends  of  a  dubious 
tradition.  Besides  a  love  of  adventure  and  an  enthusiasm  that 
surmounted  every  difficulty,  the  character  of  its  founders  was 
marked  by  a  hardy  enterprise  and  sturdiness  of  purpose,  which 
carried  them  onward  through  perils  and  suffe rings,  that  would 
have  appalled  weaker  minds  and  less  resolute  hearts.  This  is 
the  first  great  feature  of  resemblance  in  all  the  early  settlers, 
whet  In -r  they  came  to  the  north  or  to  the  south,  and  it  merits 
notice  from  the  influence  it  could  not  fail  to  exercise  on  their 
future  acts  and  character,  both  domestic  and  political.  The 
timid,  the  wavering,  the  feeble-minded,  the  sons  of  indolence 
and  ease,  were  not  among  those  who  left  the  comforts  of  home, 
braved  the  tempests  of  the  ocean,  and  sought  danger  on  the 


50  THE  LADIES'  EEADER. 

shores  of  an  unknown  and  inhospitable  world.  Incited  by  va- 
rious motives  they  might  have  been ;  by  a  fondness  for  adven- 
ture, curiosity,  gain  or  a  dread  of  oppression,  yet  none  but  the 
bold,  energetic,  determined,  persevering,  would  yield  to  these 
motives  or  any  other. 

Akin  to  these  characteristics,  and  indeed  a  concomitant  with 
them,  was  a  spirit  of  freedom,  and  a  restlessness  under  constraint. 
The  New  England  settlers,  we  know,  came  away  on  this  ground 
alone,  goaded  to  a  sense  of  their  invaded  rights  by  the  thorns 
of  religious  intolerance.  But  whatever  motives  may  have  oper- 
ated, the  prominent  fact  remains  the  same,  and  in  this  we  may 
see  throughout  the  colonies  a  uniform  basis  of  that  vigor  of 
character  and  indomitable  love  of  liberty  which  appeared  ever 
afterward,  in  one  guise  or  another,  whenever  occasions  called 
them  out. 

Hence  it  was,  also,  that  the  different  colonies,  although  under 
dissimilar  modes  of  government,  some  more  and  some  less  de- 
pendent on  the  crown,  preserved  a  close  resemblance  in  the 
spirit  of  their  internal  regulations,  that  spirit  or  those  principles 
which  entered  deeply  into  the  opinions  of  the  people,  and  upon 
which  their  habits  were  formed. 

The  instructive  lesson  of  history,  teaching  by  example,  can 
nowhere  be  studied  with  more  profit,  or  with  better  promise, 
than  in  the  revolutionary  period  of  America,  and  especially  by 
us,  who  sit  under  the  tree  our  fathers  have  planted,  enjoy  its 
shade,  and  are  nourished  by  its  fruits.  But  little  is  our  merit 
or  gain  that  we  applaud  their  deeds,  unless  we  emulate  their 
virtues.  Love  of  country  was  in  them  an  absorbing  principle, 
an  undivided  feeling ;  not  of  a  fragment,  a  section,  but  of  the 
whole  country.  Union  was  the  arch  on  which  they  raised  the 
strong  tower  of  a  nation's  independence.  Let  the  arm  be  pal- 
sied that  would  loosen  one  stone  in  the  basis  of  this  fair  struc- 
ture, or  mar  its  beauty ;  the  tongue  mute  that  would  dishonor 
their  names  by  calculating  the  value  of  that  which  they  deemed 
without  price. 

They  have  left  us  an  example  already  inscribed  in  the  world's 
memory ;  an  example  portentous  to  the  aims  of  tyranny  in  every 
land  ;  an  example  that  will  console  in  all  ages  the  drooping  as-' 
pirations  of  oppressed  humanity.  They  have  left  us  a  written 
charter  as  a  legacy,  and  as  a  guide  to  our  course.  But  every 
day  convinces  us  that  a  written  charter  may  become  powerless. 
Ignorance  may  misinterpret  it;  ambition  may  assail  and  faction 
destroy  its  vital  parts,  and  aspiring  knavery  may  at  last  sing  its 

* 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  57 

requiem  on  the  tomb  of  departed  liberty.  It  is  the  spirit  which 
lives — in  this  are  our  safety  and  our  hope — the  spirit  of  our 
fathers — and  while  this  dwells  deeply  in  our  remembrance,  and 
its  flame  is  cherished,  ever  burning,  ever  pure,  on  the  altar  of 
our  hearts ;  while  it  incites  us  to  think  as  they  have  thought, 
and  do  as  they  have  done,  the  honor  and  praise  will  be  ours,  to 
have  preserved  unimpaired  the  rich  inheritance,  which  they  so 
nobly  achieved. 


THE  CRY  OP  THE  CHILDREN— ELIZABETH  BAURETT  BEOWNINO. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my  brothers! 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years? 
They  are  leaning  their  ytfung  heads  against  their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  in  the  shadows, 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  from  the  west; 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  brothers ! 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  I 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow, 

Which  is  lost  in  long  ago. 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost ; 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost ! 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 

In  our  happy  fatherland? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see ; 
For  the  man's  grief  untimely  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy. 
"Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "is  very  dreary ;  " 

"Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "are  vory  weak  I 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  1 
Ask  the  old  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children, 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold. 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bewild'ring, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 
3* 


58  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

"  True,"  say  the  young  children,  "it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time ! 
Little  Alice  died  last  year, — the  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snow-ball  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her, 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  day  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will  wake  her, 

Crying — "  Get  up,  little  Alice,  it  is  day  ! " 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave  in  sun  and  shower, 

"With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries ; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not  know  her, 

For  the  new  smile  which  has  grown  within  her  eyes. 
For  merry  go  her  moments,  luli'd  and  still'd  in 

The  shroud,  by  the  kirk  chime ! 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 

"  That  we  die  before  our  time ! " 

Alas,  the  young  children !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have! 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from  breaking, 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the  city, 

Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes  do ! 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow  cowslips  pretty, 

Laugh  aloud  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them  through ! 
But  the  children  say,  "  Are  cowslips  of  the  meadows 

Like  the  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  our  coal  shadows. 

From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine. 

"For  oh  I"  say  the  children,  "we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap ; 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 

We  fall  on  our  face  trying  to  go ; 
And  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flowers  would  look  as  pale  as  snow ; 
For  all  day,  we  duag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal-dark  underground, 
Or,  all  day  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories  round  and  round. 

"All  day  long  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning, 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces ! 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  and  our  heads  with  pulses  burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places ! 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling, 

Turns  the  long  light  that  droopeth  down  the  wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling, 

Are  all  turning  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all! 
All  day  long,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  0  ye  wheels,  (breaking  off  in  a  mad  moaning,) 

Stop !  be  silent  for  to-day ! '  " 


THE  LADIES' READER.  59 

Ay,  be  silent !  let  them  hear  each  other  breathing, 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ; 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands  in  a  fresh  wreathing, 

Of  their  tender  human  youth ; 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 

Is  not  all  the  life  God  giveth  them  to  feel ; 
Let  them  prove  their  inward  souls  against  the  notion 

That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you.  0  wheels ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

As  if  fate  in  each  were  stark  I 
And  the  cliildrens'  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Xow  tell  the  weary  children,  0  my  brothers ! 

That  they  look  to  Him  and  pray, 
For  the  bless'd  One  who  blesseth  all  the  others, 

To  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer — "Who  is  God  that  He  should  hear  us," 

While  this  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is  stirred? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 

Pass  unhearing — at  least,  answer  not  a  word ; 
And  we  hear  not,  (for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door. 
Is  it  likely  God  with  angels  singing  round  Him, 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

i 
Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember; 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
"  Our  Father  I "  looking  upward  in  our  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  say  no  other  words  except  "Our  Father!" 

And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of  angels'  song, 
He  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet  to  gather, 

An4  "old  both  in  His  right  hand,  which  is  strong. 
Our  Father  !     If  Ho  heard  us,  He  world  surely — 

For  they  call  Him  good  :mil  mild — 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  would  very  purely, 

"Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child." 

"But  no,"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"He  is  silent  as  a  stone; 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on." 
"Go  to!"  say  the  children;  "up  in  Heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find! 
Do  not  mock  us!    we  are  atheists  in  our  grieving, 

We  look  to  Him — but  tears  have  made  us  blind  I" 
Do  you  hear  children  weeping  and  disproving, 

0  my  brothers,  what  ye  t< 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's  loving, 

And  the  children  doubt  of  each  I 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  ye, 
They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ! 


60  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun! 
They  know  the  grief  of  men,  but  not  the  wisdom, 

They  sink  in  their  despair,  with  hope  at  calm, 
Are  slaves  without  liberty  in  Christdom, 

Are  martyrs  by  the  pang  without  the  palm ! 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

No  joy  of  memory  keep, 
Are,  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly, 

Let  them  weep,  let  them  weep  1 

They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see ; 
For  you  think  you  see  their  angels  in  their  places, 

With  eyes  meant  for  Deity. 
"How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long,  0  cruel  nation! 

Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child's  heart? 
Trample  down  with  mailed  heel  its  palpitation, 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  mart? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  0  our  tyrants! 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path," 
But  the  child's  sob  curseth  deeper  in  the  silence 

Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath! 


THE  BELLS. -EDGAK  A.  POE. 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells — 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

II. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  I 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  81 

From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
"\Vliat  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
"What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  1 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  I  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  I 

in. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Bra/en  bells! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
"With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells, 

Of  Despair ! 

I  low  they  clang,  and  clash  and  roar  I 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  I 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells— 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  I 


62  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells- 
Iron  bells! 

"What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  I 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells — 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  I 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells: 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,-  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


THE    LADIES'  READER. 


TITANIA,  EOTTOM  AND  FAIRIES—  SHAKSPEARB 

Enter  TITAXIA  and  her  train. 

Tit.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some  ,  war  with  rear  mice  for  their  leathern  wing?, 
To  make  my  small  elves1  coats ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits :  Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SONG. 

1st  Fai.  You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen. 
Newts  and  blind  worms,  do  no  wrong ; 

Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 
Chorus.   Philomel  with  melody 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby, 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby:  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 
2d  Fai.  Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence : 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 

Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 
Chorus.  Philomel  with  melody,  &c. 
1st  Fai.  Hence,  away;  now  all  is  well; 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  FAIRIES.    TITANIA  sleeps. 

Enter  OBEROX. 

Ober. — What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  awake 

[Squeezes  the  flower  on  Titan-id's  eyelids 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take ; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake : 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear ; 
AVakc,  when  some  evil  thing  is  near. 

[Exit. 

Enter  BOTTOM,  tiny  ing ;  PI.TK  having  clapt  on  him  an  ass's  head. 

SONG. 
Sol.  The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 

The  wren  with  little  quill — 
Tit.  Wiat  anyel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed? 

[  Wakes. 


64  THE   LADIES1  READER. 

I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again ; 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamored  of  thy  note  ; 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason  for  that,  and  yet 
^)  say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep  little  company  together  now-a-days. 
The  more  the  pity  that  some  honest  neighbors  will  not  make  them  friends. 
.N"ay,  I  can  gleek  upon  occasion. 

Tit.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so  neither ;  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to  get  out  of  this  wood,  1 
have  enough  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Tit.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go : 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate ; 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee ;  therefore  go  with  me ; 
I'll  give  thee  faries  to  attend  on  thee ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep  : 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go, 
Peas-blossom!  Cobweb  1  Moth!  and  Mustard-seed! 

Enter  four  Fairies. 

1st  Fai.  Ready. 
2d  Fai.  And  I. 

3d  Fai.  And  I. 

4th  Fai.  Where  shall  we  go? 

Tit.  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentkman; 
Sop  in  his  walks  and  gambol  in  his  eyes- 
Feed  him  with  apricots  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs  and  mulberries : 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  for  night  tapers  crop  their  waxen  thigJis, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm 's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise : 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes ; 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 
1st  Fai.  Hail,  mortal ! 
2d  Fai.  Hail ! 
3d  Fai.  Hail! 
4thFai.  Hail! 

Bot.  I  cry   your  worship's  mercy,  heartily.      I    beseech   your  wor- 
ship's name. 
Cob.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Cobweb.  If 
I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with  you.  Your  name,  honest  gen- 
tleman ? 

Peas.  Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you  commend  me  to  Mistress  Squash,  your  mother,  and  to 


TL1K  LADIES'    READER,  65 

Master  Peascod,  your  father.     Good  Master  Peas-blossom,  I  shall  desire 
you  of  more  acquaintance,  too.     Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir  ? 

.    Mustard-seed. 

Bot  Good  Master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your  patience  well.  That 
same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef  hath  devoured  many  gentlemen  of  your 
house.  I  promise  you  your  kindred  hath  made  my  eyes  water  ere  now. 
1  desire  you  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Mustard-seed. 

OBEROS  enters  unseen. 

Tit.  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 
Sot.  Where's  Peas-blossom? 
Peas.  Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head,  Peas-blossom.    Where's  Monsieur  Cobweb  ? 
Cob.  Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb,  good  Monsieur,  get  up  your  weapons  in  your 
hands,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble  bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle;  and, 
good  Monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey-bag.  Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much 
with,  Uie  action,  monsieur ;  and,  good  monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag 
break  not ;  I  would  be  loth  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey-bag,  signior. 
—Whore's  Monsieur  Mustard-seed? 
Must.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,  Monsieur  Mustard-seed.     Pray  you,  leave  your 
courtesy,  good  monsieur. 
Must.  What's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  Cavaliero  Cobweb  to  scratch. 
Tit.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love? 
Bot.  I  have  a  reasouable  ear  in  music:  let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the 
bones. 

Tit.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat. 
Bot.  Truly  a  peck  of  provender.     I  could  munch  your  good  dry  oats. 
Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle  of  hay.     Good  ha}*,  sweet  hay, 
hath  no  fellow. 

Tit.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy,  that  shall  seek  the  squirrel's  hoard,  and 
fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas : — but,  I  pray  you, 
let  none  of  your  people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon 
me. 

Til  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  begone,  and  be  always  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  entwist; — the  female  ivy  so 
Knrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm, 
0,  how  I  love  thee  !     How  I  dote  on  thee  ! 

[They  sleep. 

OBERON  advances.    Enter  PUCK. 

Ober.  Welcome,  good  Robin.     See'st  thou  this  sweet  sight? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  b<>urin  to  pity: 
For  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood, 
Seeking  sweet  savors  for  this  hateful  fool, 
5 


66  Till-]   LADIES1  TRADER. 

I  did  upbraid  her,  and  foil  out  with  hoi : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
"With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometimes  on  the  buds 
"Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls, 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowret's  eyes, 
Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her, 
And  she,  in  mild  tones,  begged  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  my  changeling  child; 
"Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
TJds  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain  ; 
That  she  awaking  when  the  other  do, 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair, 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first,  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be ; 

[Touching  her  eyes  with  an  herl.~\ 
See  as  thou  wert  wont  to  see  ; 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
Tit.  My  Oberon !  what  visions  Rave  I  seen  ! 
Methought  I  was  enamored  of  an  ass. 
Ober.  There  lies  your  love. 
Tit.  How  came  these  things  to  pass? 

0,  how  mine  eyes  do  loath  his  visage  now ! 

Ober.  Silence  awhile.     Robin,  take  oft'  this  head. — 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tit.  Music!  ho!  music!  such  as  charmeth  sleep. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wakest,  with  thine  own  fool's  eyes  peep. 
Ober.   Sound  music !  [still  music.']     Come,  my  queen,  take   hand 

with  me, 

And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity, 
And  will  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly 
Dance  in  Duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity ; 
There  shall  the  pair  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 

Puck.  Fairy  king,  attend  and  mark ; 
I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 

Ober.  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad, 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade. 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 


TTTK    LA  DIMS1   JIKADKR. 

Tit.  Come,  my  lord,  and  in  our  flight 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night, 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found 

"With  these  mortals  on  the  ground.  [Exeunt. 

[Horns  sound  within. 


T.KMITS  AMi  iWAHOWS  OF  SCOTTISH  IJFK    Till:  AINSL1E  FA3IILY.- 
PBOFESSOR  WII.SOJT. 

<;ILI!KUT  AINSI.II:  was  u  poor  ni.in,  and  he  had  been  a  poor 
111:111  all  the  ilays  of  his  life,  which  were  not  few,  for  his  thin 
hair  was  now  waxing  irray.  II.-  had  been  born  and  bred  on 
the  small  moorland  farm  which  he  now  occupied  ;  and  he  hoped 
to  die  there,  as  his  father  and  grandfather  liad  done  before  him, 
leaving  a  family  just  above  the  more  hitter  wants  of  this  world. 
p,  hard  and  unremitting,  had  been  his  lot  in  life;  but  al- 
though sometimes  severely  "tried,  he  had  never  repined;  and 
through  all  the  mist  and  gloom,  and  even  the  storms  that  had 
availed  him,  he  had  lived  on  from  year  to  year  in  that  calm 
and  n'Mgned  contentment,  which  unconsciously  cheers  the 
hearth-stone  of  the  blameless  poor. 

With  his  own  hands  he  had  ploughed,  sowed,  and  reaped  his 
often  scanty  harrest,  assisted,  as  they  grew  up  by  three  sons, 
who  even  in  boyhood  were  happy  to  work  along  with  their 
father  in  the  fields.  Out  of  doors  or  in,  Gilbert  Ainslie  was 
never  idle.  Tin-  >pade,  tin-  shears,  the  plough-shaft,  the  sickle, 
and  the  Hail,  all  c.-im--  readily  to  hands  that  grasped  them  well; 
and  not  a  morsel  of  food  was  eaten  under  his  roof,  or  a  garment 
worn  there  that  wa<  not  honestly,  severely,  nobly  earned.  Gil- 
bert Ain-1  -lave,  but  it  was  for  them  he  loved  with  a 
sober  and  deep  atle.'tioii.  The  thraldom  under  which  he  lived 
<i»d  had  imposed,  and  it  only  served  to  give  his  character  a 
shade  of  silent  gravity,  but  not  austere;  to  make  his  smiles 
fewer,  hut  more  heartfelt;  to  calm  his  soul  at  grace  before  and 
after  meals;  and  to  kindle  it  in  morning  and  evening  prayer. 

There  is  no  need  to  tell  the  character  of  the  wife  of  such  a 
man.  Meek  and  thoughtful,  yet  gladsome  and  gay  withal,  her 
heaven  was  in  her  house ;  and  her  gentler  and  weaker  hands 
helped  to  bar  th'e  door  against  want.  Often  children  that  had 


68  THE  LADIES1  READER. 

been  born  to  them,  they  had  lost  three,  and  as  they  had  fed, 
clothed,  and  educated  them  respectably,  so  did  they  give  them 
who  died  a  respectable  funeral.  The  living  did  not  grudge  to 
give  up  for  awhile  some  of  their  daily  comforts  for  the  sake  of 
the  dead,  and  bought  with  the  little  sums  which  their  industry 
had  saved,  decent  mournings,  worn  on  Sabbath,  and  then  care- 
fully laid  by.  Of  the  seven  that  survived,  two  sons  were  farm- 
servants  in  the  neighborhood,  while  three  daughters  and  two 
sons  remained  at  home,  growing  or  grown  up,  a  small,  happy, 
hard-working  household. 

The  boys  and  girls  had  made  some  plots  of  flowers  among 
the  vegetables  that  the  little  garden  supplied  for  their  homely 
meals ;  pinks  and  carnations  brought  from  walled  gardens  of 
rich  men  farther  down  in  the  cultivated  valleys,  grew  here  with 
somewhat  diminished  lustre ;  a  bright  show  of  tulips  had  a 
strange  beauty  in  the  midst  of  that  moorland ;  and  the  smell 
of  roses  mixed  well  with  that  of  the  clover,  the  beautiful  fair 
clover  that  loves  the  soil  and  the  air  of  Scotland,  and  gives  the 
rich  and  balmy  milk  to  the  poor  man's  lips. 

In  this  cottage  Gilbert's  youngest  child,  a  girl  about  nine 
years  of  age,  had  been  lying  for  a  week  in  a  fever.  It  was  now 
Saturday  evening,  and  the  ninth  day  of  the  disease.  Was  she 
to  live  or  die  ?  It  seemed  as  if  a  very  few  hours  were  between 
the  innocent  creature  and  heaven.  All  the  symptoms  were 
those  of  approaching  death.  The  parents  knew  well  the  change 
that  comes  over  the  human  face,  whether  it  be  in  infancy,  youth 
or  prime,  just  before  the  departure  of  the  spirit ;  and  as  they 
stood  together  by  Margaret's  bed,  it  seemed  to  them  that  the 
fatal  shadow  had  fallen  upon  her  features. 

The  surgeon  of  the  parish  lived  some  miles  distant,  but  they 
expected  him  now  every  moment,  and  many  a  wistful  look  was 
directed  by  tearful  eyes  along  the  moor.  The  daughter,  who 
was  out  at  service  came  anxiously  home  on  this  night,  the  only 
one  that  could  be  allowed  her,  for  the  poor  must  work  in  their 
grief,  and  hired  servants  must  do  their  duty  to  those  whose 
bread  they  eat,  even  when  nature  is  sick — sick  at  heart.  An- 
other of  the  daughters  came  in  from  the  potato  field  beyond 
the  brae  with  what  was  to-be  their  frugal  supper.  The  calm, 
noiseless  spirit  of  life  was  in  and  around  the  house,  while  death 
seemed  dealing  with  one  who,  a  few  days  ago,  was  like  light 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  sound  of  music  that  always  breathed  up 
when  most  wanted ;  glad  and  joyous  in  common  talk — sweet, 
silvery  and  mournful  when  it  joined  in  hymn  or  psalm. 


T;LE  LADIES'  READER.  69 

One  after  another,  they  all  continued  going  up  to  the  bed-side, 
and  then  coming  away  sobbing  or  silent,  to  see  their  merry  lit- 
tle sister,  who  used  to  keep  dancing  all  day  like  a  butterfly  in 
a  meadow  field,  trifling  for  awhile  in  the  silence  of  her  joy — 
now  tossing  restlessly  on  her  bed,  and  scarcely  sensible  to  the 
words  of  endearment  whispered  around  her,  or  the  kisses  drop- 
ped with  tears,  in  spite  of  themselves  on  her  burning  forehead. 

L'tter  poverty  often  kills  the  affections,  but  a  deep,  constant 
and  common  feeling  of  this  world's  hardships,  and  an  equal  par- 
ticipation in  all  those  struggles  by  which  they  maybe  softened, 
unite  husband  and  wife,  parents  and  children,  brothers  and  sis- 
:u  thoughtful  and  subdued  tenderness,  making  them  happy 
indeed  while  the  circle  round  the  fire  is  unbroken,  and  yet  pre- 
paring them  every  day  to  bear  the  separation,  when  some  one 
ier  i^  taken  slowly  or  suddenly  away.  Their  souls  are  not 
moved  by  fits  and  starts,  although,  indeed,  nature  sometimes 
will  wivstl.-  \\ith  necessity  :  and  there  is  a  wise  moderation  both 
in  the  joy  and  the  grief  of- the  intelligent  poor,  which  keeps 
;ible  away  from  their  earthly  lot,  and  prepares  them 
bly  and  unconsciously  for  heaven. 

*•  l)o  you  think  the  child  is  dying?"  said  Gilbert  with  a  calm 
voice  to  the  surgeon,  who,  on  his  wearied  horse,  had  just  ar- 
rived from  another  sick  bed  over  the  misty  range  of  hills,  and 
Lad  been  looking  steadfastly  for  some  minutes  on  the  little  pa- 
tient. Tin-  humane  man  knew  the  family  well  in  the  midst  of 
whom  In-  wa*  standing,  and  replied,  "While  there  is  life  there 
is  hope ;  but  my  pretty  little  Margaret  is,  I  fear,  in  the  last  ex- 
tremity." There  was  no  loud  lamentation  at  these  words — all 
had  before  known,  though  they  would  not  confess  it  to  them- 
what  they  now  wnv  told — and  though  the  certainty  that 
in  the  \\-ords  of  the  skillful  man  made  their  hearts  beat  for 
a  little  with  sicker  throbbing*,  made  their  pale  faces  paler,  and 
brought  out  from  some  eyes  a  greater  gush  of  tears;  yet  death 
had  been  brt'on:  in  this  house,  and  in  this  case  he  came,  as  he 
always  docs,  in  aw.-,  but  not  in  terror. 

Then-  were  \\andcring  and  wavering  and  dreamy  phantoms  in 
the  brain  of  the  innocent  child;  but  the  few  words  she  indistinctly 
uttered  were  affecting,  not  rending  to  the  heart,  for  it  was  plain 
that  >he  thought  herself  herding  her  sheep  in  the  green,  silent 
pastures,  and  sitting  wrapped  in  her  plaid  upon  the  sunny  side 
of  the  mountain.  She  was  too  much  exhausted — there  was  too 
little  life,  too  little  breath  in  her  heart,  to  frame  a  tune ;  but 
some  of  her  words  seemed  to  be  from  favorite  old  songs ;  and  at 


70  THE  LADIES'  HEADER, 

last  her  mother  wept,  and  turned  aside  her  face,  when  the  child, 
whose  blue  eyes  were  shut,  and  her  lips  almost  still,  breathed 
out  these  lines  of  the  beautiful  twenty-third  psalm. 

"The  Lord's  my  Shepherd,  I'll  not  want; 

He  makes  me  down  to  lie 
In  pastures  green :  he  leadeth  me 

The  quiet  waters  by.1' 

The  child  was  now  left  with  none  but  her  mother  by  the  bed- 
side, for  it  was  said  to  be  best  so ;  and  Gilbert  and  his  family  sat 
down  round  the  kitchen  fire  for  awhile  in  silence.  In  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  they  began  to  rise  calmly,  and  to  go  each  to 
his  allotted  work.  One  of  the  daughters  went  forth  with  the 
pail  to  milk  the  cow,  and  another  began  to  set  out  the  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  for  supper,  covering  it  with  a  white 
cloth.  Gilbert  viewed  the  usual  household  arrangements  with 
a  solemn  and  untroubled  eye;  and  there  was  almost  the  faint 
light  of  a  grateful  smile  on  his  cheek,  as  he  said  to  the  worthy 
surgeon,  "  You  will  partake  of  our  fare  after  your  day's  travel 
and  toil  of  humanity." 

In  a  short,  silent  half  hour  the  potatoes  and  oat-cakes,  butter 
and  milk  were  on  the  board ;  and  Gilbert,  lifting  up  his  toil- 
hardened  but  manly  hand,  with  a  slow  motion  at  which  the 
room  was  as  hushed  as  if  it  had  been  empty,  closed  his  eyes  in 
reverence,  and  asked  a  blessing.  There  was  a  little  stool  on 
which  no  one  sat  by  the  old  man's  side.  It  had  been  put  there 
unwittingly,  when  the  other  seats  were  all  placed  in  their  usual 
order ;  but  the  golden  head  that  was  wont  to  rise  at  that  part 
of  the  table  was  now  wanting.  There  was  silence — not  a  word 
was  said — their  meal  was  before  them — God  had  been  thanked, 
and  they  began  to  eat. 

While  they  were  at  their  silent  meal,  a  horseman  came  gal- 
loping to  the  door,  and  with  a  loud  voice  called  out,  that  he  had 
been  sent  express  with  a  letter  to  Gilbert  Ainslie,  at  the  same 
time  rudely,  and  with  an  oath  demanding  a  dram  for  his  trou- 
ble. The  eldest  son,  a  lad  of  eighteen,  fiercely  seized  the  bridle 
of  his  horse  and  turned  his  head  away  from  the  door.  The  rider, 
somewhat  alarmed  at  the  flushed  face  of  the  powerful  stripling, 
threw  down  the  'letter  and  rode  off. 

Gilbert  took  the  letter  from  his  son's  hand,  casting  at  the 
same  time  a  half  upbraiding  look  on  his  face,  that  was  returning 
to  its  former  color.  "  I  feared,"  said  the  youth,  with  a  tear  in 
his  eye,  "  I  feared  that  the  brute's  voice  and  the  trampling  of 


THE    I  ADI  MS'  READER.  7l 

the  horse's  feet  would  have  disturbed  her."  Gilbert  held  the 
letter  hesitatingly  in  his  hand,  as  if  afraid,  at  that  moment  to 
read  it;  at  length  he  said  aloud  to  the  surgeon,  "You  know 
that  I  am  a  poor  man,  ami  debt,  if  justly  incurred,  and  punctu- 
ally paid  when  due,  is  no  dishonor."  Both  his  hand  and  his 
voice  shook  slightly  as  he  spoke;  but  he  opened  the  letter  from 
the  lawyer,  and  read  it  in  silence. 

this  in. uncut  his  wife  came  from  her  child's  bed-side,  and 
looking  an\iou>l\-  at  her  husband,  told  him  "not  to  mind  about 
the  money,  that  no  man  who  knew  him  would  arrest  his  goods 
or  put  him  into  prison.  Though,  dear  me,  it  is  cruel  to  be  put 

thus,  when  ,,ur  child  is  dying,  and  when,  if  s'o  it  be  the 
Lord's  will,  she  should  have  a  decent  burial,  poor  innocent,  like 
tin-in  that  went  brt'.nv  her."  ( iilKert  continued  reading  the  let- 
ter, with  a  l'a«-c  on  which  no  emotion  could  be  discovered ;  and 
then  folding  it  up,  he  gave  ii  to  his  wife,  told  her  she  might 
it  if  >he  cho>c,  and  then  put  it  into  his  desk  in  the  room 
poor  dear  child.  She  took  it  from  him  without  read- 
ing it,  and  cru-hed  it  into  her  bosom;  for  she  turned  her  ear 
1o\\urd  her  child,  and  thinking  she  heard  it  stir,  ran  out  hastily 

hed-idc. 

Another  hour  of  trial  pa^t,  and  the  child  was  still  swimming 
for  its  lite.  The  very  do^s  knew  there  was  grief  in  the  house, 
and  lay  without  stirring,  as  if  hiding  themselves,  below  the  long 
table  at  tin-  win. low.  One  sister  sat  with  an  unfinished  gown 
on  her  knees,  that  she  had  been  sewing  for  the  dear  child,  and 
still  continued  at  the  hopeless  worlc^she  scarcely  knew  why,  and 
often,  often,  putting  up  her  hand  to  wipe  away  a  tear.  "What 
is  that  . .'"  said  the  ,,\,\  mail  to  his  eldest  daughter.  "What  is 
that  you  arc  laying  .»n  the  shelff  She  could  scarcely  reply 
that  it  wa>  ;i  ribbon  and  an  ivory  comb  that  she  had  bought 
for  little  Margaiv;,  against  the  night  of  the  dancing-school  ball. 

And  at  theM-  words  the  lather  could  not  restrain  a  long,  deep 
and  bitter  -jToan  ;  at  which  the  boy  nearest  in  age  to  his  dying 
looked  up,  weeping,  iu  his  face,  and  letting  the  tattered 
book  of  old  ballads  wliich  he  had  been  poring  over,  but  not  read- 
ing, fall  out  of  his  hands,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and,  going  into 
his  father's  bosom,  ki-^cd  j,im,  and  asked  God  to  bless  him,  for 
the  holy  In-art  of  the  boy  was  moved  within  him;  and  the  old 
man,a<  he  embraced  him,  felt  that  in  his  innocence  and  simpli- 
city he  was  indeed  a  comfort. T.  "The  Lord  giveth  and  the 
aketh  away,'1  said  the  old  man;  "blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord." 


12  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

The  outer  door  gently  opened,  and  lie  whose  presence  had  in 
former  years  brought  peace  and  resignation  hither,  when  their 
hearts  had  been  tried,  even  as  they  now  were  tried  stood  before 
them.  On  the  night  before  the  Sabbath,  the  minister  of  the 
parish  never  left  his  Manse,  except  as  now,  to  visit  the  sick  or 
dying  bed.  Scarcely  could  Gilbert  reply  to  his  first  question 
about  his  child,  when  the  surgeon  came  from  the  bed-room  and 
said,  "  Margaret  seems  lifted  up  by  God's  hand  above  death  and 
the  grave  :  I  think  she  will  recover.  She  has  fallen  asleep,  and 
when  she  wakes,  I  hope — I  believe — that  the  danger  will  be 
past,  and  that  your  child  will  live." 

They  were  all  prepared  for  death ;  but  now  they  were  found 
unprepared  for  life.  One  wept  that  had  till  then  locked  up  all 
her  tears  within  her  heart ;  another  gave  a  short  palpitating 
shriek ;  and  the  tender-hearted  Isabel,  who  had  nursed  the  child 
when  it  was  a  baby,  fainted  away.  The  youngest  brother  gave 
way  to  gladsome  smiles,  and  calling  out  his  dog  Hector,  who 
used  to  sport  with  him  and  his  little  sister  on  the  moor,  he  told 
the  tidings  to  the  dumb,  irrational  creature,  whose  eyes  it  is 
certain  sparkled  with  a  sort  of  joy. 

The  letter  received  by  the  rude  horseman  proved  to  be  from 
an  executor  to  the  will  of  a  distant  relative,  who  had  left  Gil- 
bert Ainslie  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  "This  sum,"  said  Gil- 
bert, "  is  a  large  one  to  folks  like  us,  and  will  do  more,  far  more 
than  put  me  fairly  above  the  world  at  last.  I  believe  that  with 
it,  I  may  buy  this  very  farm  on  which  my  forefathers  have 
toiled.  May  God,  whose  providence  has  sent  this  temporal 
blessing,  send  us  also  wisdom  and  prudence  how  to  use  it,  and 
humble  and  grateful  hearts  to  him  for  his  goodness." 

There  was  silence,  gladness  and  sorrow  and  but  little  sleep  in 
Moss-side,  between  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  stars  that  were 
now  out  in  thousands  clear,  bright  and  sparkling  over  the  un- 
clouded sky.  Those  who  had  lain  down  for  an  hour  or  two  in 
bed,  could  scarcely  be  said  to  have  slept ;  and  when,  about 
morning  little  Margaret  awoke,  an  altered  creature,  pale,  lan- 
guid, and  -unable  to  turn  herself  on  her  lowly  bed,  but  with 
meaning  in  her  eyes,  memory  in  her  mind,  affection  in  her 
heart,  and  coolness  in  all  her  veins,  a  happy  group  were  watch- 
ing the  first  faint  smile  that  broke  over  her  features ;  and  never 
did  one  who  stood  there  forget  that  Sabbath  morning  on  which 
she  seemed  to  look  round  upon  them  all  with  a  gaze  of  fair  and 
sweet  bewilderment,  like  one  half  conscious  of  having  been  res- 
cued from  the  power  of  the  grave. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  73 


JEPllTHAirs  DAUGHTER.-**.  P.  WILLIS. 

She  stood  before  her  father's  gorgeous  tent, 
To  listen  for  his  coming.     Her  loose  hair 
"Was  resting  on  her  shoulders,  like  a  cloud 
Floating  around  a  statue,  and  the  wind, 

aying  her  light  robe,  revealed  a  shape 
Praxiteles  might  worship.     She  had  clasp'd 
Her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  had  raised 
Her  beautiful,  dark.  Jewish  eyes  to  heaven, 
Till  the  long  lashes  lay  upon  her  brow. 
Her  lip  was  slightly  parted,  like  the  cleft 
Of  a  pomegranate  blossom  ;  and  her  neck, 
Just  when'  the  cheek  was  melting  to  its  curve 
"With  the  unearthly  beauty  sometimes  there, 
"Was  shad'-d.  as  if  light  had  fallen  oil', 
Its  snr!  'polished.     She  was  stilling 

Her  light,  quick  breath,  to  hear;  and  the  white  rose 
Scarce  moved  upon  her  bosom,  as  it  swell'd, 
Like  nothing  but  a  lovely  wave  of  light, 
To  meet  tin-  arching  of  her  queenly  neck. 
Her  countenance  was  radiant  with  love. 

look'd  like  one  to  die  for  it — a  being 
"Who-c  whole  existence  was  the  pouring  out 
Of  rich  and  deep  atleetions.     I  have  thought 
A  brother's  and  a  sister's  love  were  much; 
I  know  a  brother's  is — for  I  have  been 

tor's  idol — and  I  know  how  full 
The  heart  may  be  of  tenderness  to  her  1 
But  the  affection  of  a  delicate  child 
For  a  fond  father,  gushing,  as  it  does, 
With  the  sweet  springs  of  life,  and  pouring  on, 
Through  all  earth's  chan-_rcs.  like  a  river's  course, 
Chastened  with  reverence,  and  made  more  pure 
By  the  world's  discipline  of  light  and  shade — 
'Tis  deeper — holier. 

The  wind  bore  on 

The  leaden  tramp  of  thousands.     Clarion  notes 
Hang  sharply  on  the  ear  at  intervals ; 
And  the  low,  mingled  diu  of  mighty  hosts 
Returning  from  the  battle,  pour'd  from  far, 
Like  the  deep  murmur  of  a  restless  sea. 
They  came,  as  earthly  conquerors  always  come, 
"With  blood  and  splendor,  revelry  and  wo. 
The  stately  horse  treads  proudly — he  hath  trod 
The  brow  of  death,  as  well.     The  chariot  wheels 
Of  warriors  roll  magnificently  on — 
Their  weight  hath  crushed  the  fallen.     Man  is  there — 
Majestic,  lordly  man — with  his  sublime 
And  elevated  brow,  and  godlike  frame ; 


OF  THE 


UNiVERS! 


1 


74  THE  LADIES1  READER. 

Lifting  his  crest  in  triumph — for  his  heel 
Hath  trod  the  dying  like  a  wine-press  down 

The  mighty  Jephthah  led  his  warriors  on 

Through  Mizpeh's  streets.     His  helm  was  proudly  set, 

And  his  stern  lip  curl'd  slightly,  as  if  praise 

Were  for  the  hero's  scorn.     His  step  was  firm, 

But  free  as  India's  leopard,  and  his  mail 

Whose  shekels  none  in  Israel  might  bear, 

Was  like  a  cedar's  tassel  on  his  frame. 

Hig  crest  was  Judah's  kingliest ;  and  the  look 

Of  his  dark,  lofty  eye  and  bended  brow, 

Might  quell  the  lion.     He  led  on ;  but  thoughts 

Seemed  gathering  round  which  troubled  him.     The  veins 

Grew  visible  upon  his  swarthy  brow, 

And  his  proud  lip  was  press'd  as  if  with  pain. 

He  trod  less  firmly ;  and  his  restless  eye 

Glanced  forward  frequently,  as  if  some  ill 

He  dared  not  meet,  were  there.     His  home  was  near ; 

And  men  were  thronging  with  that  strange  delight 

They  have  in  human  passions,  to  observe 

The  struggle  of  his  feelings  with  his  pride. 

He  gazed  intensely  forward.     The  tall  firs 

Before  his  tent  were  motionless.     The  leaves 

Of  the  sweet  aloe,  and  the  clustering  vines 

Which  half  concealed  his  threshold,  met  his  eye, 

Unchanged  and  beautiful ;  and  one  by  one, 

The  balsam,  with  its  sweet-distilling  stems, 

And  the  Circassian  rose,  and  all  the  crowd 

Of  silent  and  familiar  things  stole  up, 

Like  the  recover'd  passages  of  dreams. 

He  strode  on  rapidly.     A  moment  more, 

And  he  had  reach'd  his  home ;  when,  lo.!  there  sprang 

One  with  a  bounding  footstep  and  a  brow 

Of  light  to  meet  him.     Oh  how  beautiful ! — 

Her  dark  eye  flashing  like  a  sun-lit  gem — 

And  her  luxuriant  hair! — 'twas  like  the  sweep 

Of  a  swift  wing  in  visions.     He  stood  still, 

As  if  the  sight  had  withered  him.     She  threw 

Her  arms  about  his  neck — he  heeded  not. 

She  call'd  him  "Father" — but  he  answered  not. 

She  stood  and  gazed  upon  him.     Was  he  wroth  ? 

There  was  no  anger  in  that  blood-shot  eye. 

Had  sickness  seized  him  ?     She  unclasp'd  his  helm, 

And  laid  her  white  hand  gently  on  his  brow, 

And  the  large  veins  felt  stiff  and  hard,  like  cords'. 

The  touch  aroused  him.     He  raised  up  his  hands', 

And  spoke  the  name  of  God  in  agomV 

She  knew  that  he  was  stricken,  then  ;  and  rush'd 

Again  into  his  arms ;  and,  with  a  flood 

Of  tears  she  could  not  bridle,  sobb'd  a  prayer 

That  he  would  breathe  his  agony  in  words. 

He  told  her — and  a  momentary  flush 


TilK    LA  PI  US1   HEADER. 

Shot  o'er  her  countenance ;  and  then  the  soul 
Of  Jephthah's  daughter  waken'd ;  and  she  stood 

Calmly  and  nobly  up.  ami  said  'twas  well — 
And  she  would  die.         ***** 

The  sun  had  well  nigh  set. 
The  fire  was  on  the  altar ;  and  the  priest 
Of  the  High  God  was  there.     A  pallid  man 

.inir  out  his  trembling  hands  to  Heaven, 
As  if  he  would  have  prayed,  but  had  no  words — 
And  she  who  was  to  die,  the  calmest  one 
In  Nraol  at  that  hour,  stood  up  alone, 
And  waited  for  th«-  sun  to  set.     Her  face 
AV.-i-;  pule,  but  very  beautiful — her  lip 
Had  a  more  delicate  outline,  and  the  tint 

•"Uiitenauce  was  like 
The  majesty  of  angels. 

The  sun  set — 
A  ud  she  was  dead — but  not  by  violence. 


75 


THE  NH-HTI.MJAI.i:  AM)  THE  MUSICIAN.-JonN  FORD. 

ng  from  Italy  to  Greece,  the  tales 
"Which  poets  of  an  elder  time  have  feign'd 
To  glorify  their  Tempe,  bred  in  me 
Desire  of  visiting  that  paradise. 
To  Thessaly  I  came,  and  living  private, 
"Without  acquaintance  of  more  sweet  companions 
Than  the  old  inmates  to  my  love,  my  thoughts, 
I  day  by  day  fp-<jucnted  silent  groves, 
And  solitary  walks.     One  morning  early 
This  accident  encountered  me:    I  h«-ard 
The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 
That  art  or  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in. 
A  sound  of  music  touch'd  mine  ears,  or  rather 
Ind'-i-d  entranc'd  my  soul;  as  I  stole  nearer, 
Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 
This  youth,  this  fair-faced  youth,  upon  his  lute 
With  "strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony 
Proclaiming  (as  it  seem'd)  so  bold  a  challenge 
To  the  clear  quiristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds, 
<-ked  about  him,  all  stood  silent, 
AVond'ritiir  at  what  they  heard.     I  wondcr'd  too. 

.illcd  musician,  undertakes 
The  challenge ;  and  for  every  several  strain 
The  wcll-shap'd  youth  could  touch,  she  sung  her  dowr 
He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 


76  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Upon  his  quaking  instrument,  than  sho 

The  nightingale  did  with  her  various  notes 

Reply  to. 

Some  time  thus  spent,  the  young  man  grew  at  last 

Into  a  pretty  anger ;  that  a  bird, 

Whom  art  had  never  taught  cliffs,  moods  or  notes, 

Should  vie  with  him  for  mastery,  whose  study 

Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice : 

To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture, 

Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly, 

So  many  voluntaries,  and  so  quick, 

That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning, 

Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  diff  'ring  method 

Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  delight. 

The  bird  (ordained  to  be 

Music's  first  martyr)  strove  to  imitate 

These  several  sounds :  which  when  her  warbling  throat 

Fail'd  in,  for  grief  down  dropt  she  on  his  lute 

And  brake  her  heart.     It  was  the  quaintest  sadness, 

To  see  the  conqueror  upon  her  hearse 

To  weep  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears. 

He  looks  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 

Then  sighed,  then  wiped  his  eyes,  then  sigh'd,  and  cried, 

"Alas,  poor  creature,  I  will  soon  revenge 

This  cruelty  upon  the  author  of  it. 

Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 

Shall  never  more  betray  a  harmless  peace 

To  an  untimely  end ;  "  and  in  that  sorrow, 

As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a  tree, 

I  suddenly  stept  in. 


MOUNT  YERNON.— ANNA  CORA  EITCHIE. 

AT  this  moment  they  drew  near  the  rude  wharf  at  Mount 
Vernon ;  the  boat  stopped ;  and  the  crowd  of  passengers  landed. 

By  a  narrow  pathway  they  ascended  a  majestic  hill  thickly 
draped  with  trees.  The  sun  scarcely  found  its  way  through  the 
luxuriant  foliage.  They  mounted  slowly,  but  had  only  spent  a 
few  minutes  in  ascending,  when  they  came  suddenly  upon  a 
picturesque  nook,  where  a  cluster  of  unostentatious,  white  mar- 
ble shafts,  shot  from  greenly  sodded  earth,  inclosed  by  iron 
railings.  These  unpretending  monuments  mark  the  localities 
where  repose  the  mortal  remains  of  Washington's  kindred. 

Just  beyond  stands  a  square  brick  building.  In  the  center 
you  see  an  iron  gate.  Here  the  crowd  pauses  in  reverential 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  77 

silence.  Men  lift  their  hats  and  women  bow  their  heads.  You 
behold  within  two  sare.»phagi.  In  those  mouldering  tombs  lie 
tin-  ashes  of  the  great  Washington  and  his  wife. 

Not  a  word  is  uttered  as  the  crowd  stand  gazing  on  this 
lowly  receptacle  of  the  dust  of  America's  mighty  dead. 

Are  there  any  in  that  group  who  can  say,  "this  was  our 
country's  lather?"  If  there  be,  can  they  stand  pilgrims  at  that 
grave  without  Washington's  examples,  his  counsels,  his  words, 
•fore,  it  may  be  half  forgotten,  stealing  back  into  their 
minds,  until  the  sense  of  reverence  and  gratitude  is  deepened 
almost  to  awe  ?  Do  they  not  feel  that  Washington's  spirit  is 
abroad  in  the  world,  filling  the  souls  of  a  heaven-favored  people 
with  the  love  of  freedom  and  of  country,  though  his  ashes  are 
gathered  here? 

Some  one  mores  to  pass  on,  and  with  that  first  step  the  spell 
is  l»r<>krn;  others  follow.  Herman  and  Jessie  linger  last.  After 
a  period  of  mute  and  moving  reflection,  they  turn  away  and 
slowly  approach  the  mansion  that  in  simple,  rural  stateliness, 
stands  upon  a  noble  promontory,  belted  with  woods,  and  half- 
girdled  by  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Potomac  which  flow  in  a 
semicircle  around  a  portion  of  the  mount. 

The  water  and  woodland  view  from  the  portico  is  highly  im- 
posing. But  it  was  not  the  mere  recognition  of  the  pictu- 
and  beautiful  in  nature  that  moved  Herman  and  Jessie. 
Thev  would  have  felt  that  they  were  on  holy  ground,  had  the 
landscape  been  devoid  of  natural  charm.  Here  the  feet  of  the 
first  of  heroes  had  trod — here  in  boyhood  he  had  sported  with 
his  beloved  In-other  Lawrence — in  those  forests,  those  deep- 
wooded  irlens,  he  had  limited,  when  a  stripling,  by  the  side  of 
old  Lord  Fairfax — here  he  took  his  first  lessons  in  the  art  of  war 
— to  this  home  In-  brought  his  bride — by  this  old-fashioned,  hos- 
pitablo-lo.iking  fireside,  he  sat  with  that  dear  and  faithful  wife; 
heneath  yonder  alley  of  lofty  trees  he  has  often  wandered  by 
In-r  sidi — here  he  indulged  the  agricultural  tastes  in  which  he 
delighted — here  resigned  his  Cincinnatus  vocation  and  bade 
to  hi-  eherished  home  at  the  summons  of  his  country. 
his  \\ite  received  the  letter  which  told  her  that  he  had 
!•••.. n  ;ip})ointed  eomniander-in-chief  of  the  army — here,  when 
tin-  'J"ii"iis  >t niggle  closed  at  the  trumpet  notes  of  victory — 
when  t!i<-  Uritish  had  retired — when,  with  tears  coursing  down 
his  benignant,  manly  countenance,  he  had  uttered  a  touching 
ell — bestowed  a  paternal  benediction  on  the  American 
army,  and  resigned  all  public  service— here  he  returned,  think- 


78  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

ing  to  resume  the  rural  pursuits  that  charmed  him,  and  to  end 
his  days  in  peace !  Here  are  the  trees — the  shrubbery  ho 
planted  with  his  own  hands  and  noted  in  his  diary;  here  are 
the  columns  of  the  portico  round  which  he  twined  the  coral 
honeysuckle ;  the  ivy  he  transplanted  still  clings  to  yonder  gar- 
den wall ;  these  vistas  he  opened  through  yon  pine  groves  to 
command  far-off  views  !  Here  the  valiant  Lafayette  sojourned 
with  him ;  there  hangs  the  key  of  the  Bastilc  which  he  pre- 
sented. Here  flocked  the  illustrious  men  of  all  climes,  and 
were  received  with  warm,  unpretending,  almost  rustic  hospital- 
ity. Here  the  French  Houdon  modelled  his  statue,  and  the 
English  Pine  painted  his  portrait,  and  caused  that  jocose  re- 
mark, "  I  am  so  hackneyed  to  the  touches  of  the  painters'  pen- 
cil, that  I  am  altogether  at  their  beck,  and  sit  like  'Patience  on 
a  monument !' " 

Then  came  another  summons  from  the  land  he  had  saved, 
and  he  was  chosen  by  unanimous  voice  its  chief  ruler. 

Thousands  of  men,  women  and  children  sent  up  acclamations, 
and  called  down  blessings  on  his  head,  as  he  made  his  triumphal 
progress  from  Mount  Vernon  to  New  York,  to  take  the  presiden- 
tial oath.  The  roar  of  cannon  rent  the  air.  The  streets  through 
which  he  passed  were  illuminated  and  decked  with  flags  and 
wreaths.  Bonfires  blazed  on  the  hills.  From  ships  and  boats 
floated  festive  decorations.  At  Gray's  Ferry,  he  passed  under 
triumphal  arches.  On  the  bridge  across  the  Assumpink,  (the 
very  bridge  over  which  he  had  retreated  in  such  blank  despair 
before  the  army  of  Cornwallis  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Prince- 
ton,) thirteen  pillars,  twined  with  laurel  and  evergreens,  were 
reared  by  woman's  hands.  The  foremost  of  the  arches  those 
columns  supported,  bore  the  inscription,  "  The  Defender  of  the 
Mothers  will  be  the  Protector  of  the  Daughters."  Mothers, 
with  their  white-robed  daughters,  were  assembled  beneath  the 
vernal  arcade.  Thirteen  maidens  scattered  flowers  beneath  his 
feet  as  they  sang  an  ode  of  gratulation.  The  people's  hero 
ever  after  spoke  of  this  tribute  as  the  one  that  touched  him 
most  deeply. 

When  his  first  presidential  term  expired,  and  his  heart 
yearned  for  the  peace  of  his  domestic  hearth,  the  entreaties  of 
Jefferson,  Randolph,  and  Hamilton,  forced  him  to  forget  that 
home  for  the  one  he  held  in  the  hearts  of  patriots,  and  to  allow 
his  name  to  be  used  a  second  time.  A  second  time  he  was 
unanimously  elected  to  preside  over  his  country's  welfare.  But, 
the  period  happily  expired,  he  thankfully  laid  aside  the-  mantle 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  79 

of  state,  the  scepter  of  power,  and,  five  days  after  the  inaugura- 
tion of  Adams,  returned  la-re  to  his  Mount  Vernon  home.  ^And 
here  the  good  servant,  whom  his  Lord,  when  he  came,  found 
:ing  raid  ivady,  calmly  yielded  up  his  breath,  exclaiming, 
"It  is  well  I"  and  his  ^»irit.  was  waited  to  heaven  by  the  bless- 

lanchised  countrymen. 

h  wore  the  events  upon  which  Herman  and  Jessie  con- 
1  during  the  hours  that  glided  away  at  Mount  Vernon. 

Herman  could   not  but  wonder,  ami   not  wholly  without  in- 
dignation, that  while  the   earthly  dwellings  of  so  many  men, 
red  illustrious  by  their  genius  or  their  great  deeds,  were 
held  saeivd  in  tin-   old  world,  this  home  of  America's  peerless 
patriot,  the  most  hallo  wed  ground  of  the  new  land,  had  not  been 
Hiatched  t'rom  the  rhanees  of  profanation  and  ruin,  and  set  apart 
-hrine  to  which   young  and  old  might  make  pilgrimages, 
and  be  inspired  with  holy  and  patriotic  emotions  as  they  visited 
the  scenes  consecrated  by  the  memory — the  virtues  of  the  de- 
parted hero. 

"The  day  for  that  token  of  a  nation's  reverence  must — will 
come'' — answered  Jes-io  confidently.  "The  land  is  young — it 
>t  had  time,  in  its  bustling  struggle  for  existence,  to  claim 
If  the  tomb  upon  which  the  spirit  of  liberty  sits  enthroned. 
1-iut  Mount  Yernon  will  not  be  desecrated.  If  governments  are 
forgetful,  there  are  too  many  grateful  hearts  in  the  breasts  of 
American  trnunn  for  Mount  Yernon,  the  home  of  their  father, 
to  become  a  ruin.  What  did  you  tell  me  of  the  raising  of  the 
Hunker  Hill  Monument?  When  men  shrank  at  the  prospect 
of  failure,  did  not  woman  press  forward  and  finish  what  their 
br«»t  I  r  .'  And  may  not  the  efforts  of  the  faithful  and 

devoted  women  of  the  laud  preserve,  enshrine  Mount  Vernon. 

••  iJitli ;-:;!-•;"  .-aid  Herman,  "do  you  suppose  they  could 
accomplish  such  an  Herculean  task?" 

"Yea/1  n-plied  .Jc»i<-  \uth  fervor,  "that,  or  any  good  and 
holy  work  to  which  they  devote  their  best  energies.  Let  but 
a  master-spirit  (heaven-appointed)  lead  them  and  mark  out  the 
way — one  noble,  self->acriiicing  and  wholly  unselfish,  patriotic 
woman,  and  thousands  of  hands  and  hearts  will  labor  with  her 
— they  will  .share  her  laurels,  but  the  work  will  truly  be  hers,  and 
it  will  surely  be  accomplished." 

At  this  moment  the  sounding  of  a  bell  gave  warning  that  the 
boat  was  about  to  return,  and  they  reluctantly  retraced  their 
steps  to  the  wharf. 


80  Til!']  LADIES'  P^ 


TINA  AND  THE 

Yet  she,  most  faithful  lady,  all  this  while, 
Forsaken,  woful,  solitary  maid, 
Far  from  all  people's  press,  as  in  exile,. 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful  deserts  stray'd, 
To  seek  her  knight,  who  subtily  betray'd 
Through  that  late  vision  which  the  enchanter  wrought 
Had  her  abandon'd.     She,  of  naught  afraid, 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide  him  daily  sought, 
Yet  wished  tidings  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 

One  day  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way, 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight, 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow  far  from  all  men's  sight : 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight 
And  laid  her  stole  aside :  her  angel's  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ? 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenty, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood  : 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse, 
And  with  the  sight  amaz'd,  forgot  his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kissed  her  weary  feet, 
And  lick'd  her  lily  hand  with  fawning  tongue; 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong! 
"Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death  when  she  had  marked  long 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassion: 
And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"  TJie  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field," 
Quoth  she,  "  his  princely  puissance  doth  abate, 
And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield, 
Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  pricked  with  pity  of  my  sad  estate — 
But  he  my  lion  and  my  noble  lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  ador'd 
As  the  god  of  my  life?    Why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd?" 


:M-:ADKR.  81 


TI1H   DIYKK.-SCIULI.KE. 

"Oh,  whore  is  the  knight  or  the  squire  so 'bold, 

io  dive  to  the  howling  cbarybdis  below  ? — 
I  cast  into  the  whirlpool  a  goblet  of  gold, 

And  o'er  it  already  the  dark  waters  flow; 
Whoever  to  me  may  the  goblet  bring, 
Shall  have  for  his  guerdon  that  gift  of  his  king." 

He  spoke,  and  the  cup  from  the  terrible  steep, 
Thar,  rugired  and  hoary,  hung  over  the  verge 
Of  th<  •  i Cureless  world  of  the  deep, 

•  I'd  into  the  maelstrom  that  maddened  the  surire. 

Mio  diver  so  stout  to  go— 
I  ask  ye  again — to  the  deep  I 

And  the  knights,  and  the  squires  that  gather'd  around, 
Stood  silent — and  ilx'd  on  the  ocean  their  ryes; 

look'd  on  the  dismal  and  savage  profound. 
And  the  peril  chill'd  l»aek  every  thought  of  the  prize. 
And  thrice  spoke  the  monarch — "The  cup  to  win. 
BT  a  wight  who  will  venture  in  ?" 

And  all  as  before  heard  in  silence  the  king — 
Till  a  youth  with  an  aspect  unfearing  but  gentle, 

'Mid  tlie  tremulous  sijuires — stept  out  from  the  ring, 
Unbuckling  hi-  I  dolling  his  mantle; 

And  the  murmuring  crowd,  as  they  parted  asunder". 

On  the  stately  boy  cast  their  looks  of  wonder. 

As  he  strode  to  the  marge  of  the  summit,  and  gave 
One  glance  on  the  gulf  of  that  merciless  main; 

i'-vours  the  wave, 
Casts  roaringly  up  the  charybdis  again  ; 

!  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 
fuamingly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 

eummix'd  and  contending; 
And  tib  i:s  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 

And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending. 
And  it  never  will  rest,  nor  from  travail  be  free, 
-ea  that  is  laboring  the  birth  of  a  sea. 

And  at  last  there  lay  open  the  desolate  realm ! 

Tin-.  that  whiten'd  the  waste  of  the  swell, 

Dark-  nod  a  cleft  in  the  midst  of  the  whelm, 

The  ]r  heart  of  that  fathomless  hell. 

Round  and  round  whirl'd  the  waves — deep  and  deeper  still  driven, 
•  gorge  thro'  the  mountainous  main  thunder-riven. 
6 


82  THE   LADIES'  HEADER. 

The  youth  gave  his  trust  to  his  Maker  !     Before 
That  path  through  the  riven  abyss  closed  again — 

Hark !  a  .shriek  from  the  crowd  rang  aloft  from  the  shore, 
And,  behold !  he  is  whiii'd  in  the  grasp  of  the  main ! 

And  o'er  him  the  breakers  mysteriously  roll'd, 

And  the  giant-mouth  closed  on  the  swimmer  so  bold. 

O'er  the  surface  grim  silence  lay  dark  and  profound, 
But  the  deep  from  below  murmur'd  hollow  and  fell ; 

And  the  crowd,  as  it  shudder'd,  lamented  aloud — 

"  Gallant  youth — noble  heart — fare-thee-well,  fare- thee- well !" 

And  still  ever  deepening  that  wail  as  of  woe, 

More  hollow  the  gulf  sent  its  howl  from  below. 

If  thou  should'st  in  those  waters  thy  diadem  fling, 
And  cry,  "Who  may  find  it  shall  win  it,  and  wear;" 

God's  wot,  though  the  prize  were  the  crown  of  a  king — 
A  crown  at  such  hazard  were  valued  too  dear. 

For  never  did  lips  of  the  living  reveal, 

What  the  deeps  that  howl  yonder  in  terror  conceal. 

0  many  a  ship,  to  that  breast  grappled  fast, 
Has  gone  down  to  the  fearful  and  fathomless  grave ; 

Again,  crash'd  together,  the  keel  and  the  mast, 
To  be  seen,  toss'd  aloft  in  the  glee  of  the  wave. — 

Like  the  growth  of  a  storm  ever  louder  and  clearer, 

Grows  the  roar  of  the  gulf  rising  nearer  and  nearer. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commix'd  and  contending ; 

An'd  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending. 

And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 

Rushes  roaringly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

And,  lo  !  from  the  heart  of  that  far-floating  gloo'm, 

What  gleams  on  the  darkness  so  swanlike  and  white  ? 

Lo  !  an  arm  and  a  neck,  glancing  up  from  the  tomb  ! — 
They  battle — the  Man's  with  the  Element's  might. 

It  is  he — it  is  he  ! — in  his  left  hand  behold, 

As  a  sign — as  a  joy ! — shines  the  goblet  of  gold ! 

And  he  breathed  deep,  and  he  breathed  long, 
And  he  greeted  the  heavenly  delight  of  the  day. 

They  gaze  on  each  other — they  shout  as  they  throng — 
"He  lives — lo  the  ocean  has  rendered  its  prey ! 

And  out  of  the  grave  where  the  Hell  began, 

His  valor  has  rescued  the  living  man !" 

And  he  comes  with  the  crowd  in  their  clamor  and  glee, 
And  the  goblet  his  daring  has  won  from  the  water, 

He  lifts  to  the  king  as  he  sinks  on  his  knee ; 

And  the  king  from  her  maidens  has  beckoned  his  daughter — 


TIIK    lADIKS'   READER. 

And  he  bade  her  the  wine  to  his  cup-bearer  bring, 
And  thus  spake  the  Diver — "Long  life  to  the  king! 

"Happy  they  whom  the  rose-hues  of  daylight  rejoice, 
The  air  and  the  sky  that  to  mortals  are  given ! 

May  the  horror  below  never  more  find  a  voice — 
Nor  Man  stretch  too  far  the  wide  mercy  of  Heaven ! 

Never  more — never  more  may  he  lift  from  the  mirror, 

The  Veil  which  is  woven  with  NIGHT  and  with  TERROR  I 

"  Quick-brightening  like  lightning — it  tore  me  along, 
Down,  down,  till  the  gush  of  a  torrent  at  play, 

In  the  rocks  of  its  wilderness  caught  me — and  strong 
As  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  it  whirled  me  away. 

Vain,  vain  were  my  struggles — the  circle  had  won  me, 

Round  and  round  in  its  dance  the  wild  element  spun  me. 

"And  I  call'd  on  my  God,  and  my  God  heard  my  prayer, 
In  the  strength  of  my  need,  in  the  gasp  of  my  breath — 

And  show'd  me  a  crag  that  rose  up  from  the  lair, 
And  I  clung  to  it,  trembling — and  baffled  the  death  1 

And,  safe  in  the  perils  around  me,  behold 

On  the  spikes  of  the  coral  the  goblet  of  gold. 

"  Below,  at  the  foot  of  that  precipice  drear, 
Spread  the  gloomy,  and  purple,  and  pathless  obscure ! 

A  Silence  of  Horror  that  slept  on  the  ear, 

That  the  eye  more  appall'd  might  the  Horror  endure ! 

Salamander — snake — dragon — vast  reptiles  that  dwell 

In  the  deep — coil'd  about  the  grim  jaws  of  their  hell. 

"  Dark-crawl'd — glided  dark  the  unspeakable  swarms, 
Like  masses  unshapen,  made  life  hideously — 

Here  clung  and  here  bristled  the  fashionless  forms — 
Here  the  Hammer-fish  darken'd  the  dark  of  the  sea — 

And  with  teeth  grinning  white,  and  a  menacing  motion, 

Went  the  terrible  Shark— the  Hyena  of  Ocean. 

"There  I  hung,  and  the  awe  gather'd  icily  o'er  me, 
So  far  I'mm  tin-  <-;irth  where  man's  help  there  was  none  I 

The  One  Human  Tiling,  with  the  Goblins  before  me — 
Alone — in  a  loneness  so  ghastly — ALONE  ! 

Fathom-deep  from  man's  eye  in  the  speechless  profound, 

With  the  death  of  the  Main  and  the  Monsters  around. 

:  ought,  as  I  gazed  through  the  darkness,  that  now 
A  hundred-limb'd  creature  caught  sight  of  its  prey, 

And  darted — 0  God !  from  the  far-flaming  bough 
Of  the  coral,  I  swept  on  the  horrible  way ; 

And  it  seized  me,  the  wave  with  its  wrath  and^its  roar, 
It  seized  me  to  save — King,  the  danger  is  o'er  I" 

On  the  youth  gazed  the  monarch,  and  marvel'd— quoth  he 
"Bold  Diver,  the  goblet  I  promised  is  thine, 


83 


84 


THE   LADIES'  READER. 

And  this  ring  will  I  give,  a  fresh  guerdon  to  thee, 
Never  jewels  more  precious  shone  up  from  the  mine ; 

If  thou'lt  bring  me  fresh  tidings,  and  venture  again, 
To  say  what  lies  hid  in  the  innermost  main !  " 

Then  outspake  the  daughter  in  tender  emotion, 
"Ah !  father,  my  father,  what  more  can  there  rest  ? 

Enough  of  this  sport  with  the  pitiless  ocean — 
He  has  served  thee  as  none  would,  thyself  hast  confest. 

If  nothing  can  slake  thy  wild  thirst  of  desire, 

Be  your  knights  not,  at  least,  put  to  shame  by  the  squire !  " 

The  king  seized  the  goblet — he  swung  it  on  high, 
And  whirling,  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide  ; 

But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 

And  I'll  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  my  side, 

And  thine  arms  shall  embrace  as  thy  bride,  I  decree, 

The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadeth  for  thee." 

In  his  heart,  as  he  listen'd,  there  leapt  the  wild  joy — 
And  the  hope  and  the  love  through  his  eyes  spoke  in  fire, 

On  that  bloom,  on  that  blush,  gazed,  delighted,  the  boy; 
The  maiden  she  faints  at  the  feet  of  her  sire  ! 

Here  the  guerdon  divine,  there  the  danger  beneath ; 

He  resolves ! — To  the  strife  with  the  life  and  the  death ! 

They  hear  the  loud  surges  sweep  back  in  their  swell ; 

Their  coming  the  thunder-sound  heralds  along ! 
Fond  eyes  yet  are  tracking  the  spot  where  he  fell — 

They  come,  the  wild  waters  in  tumult  and  throng. 
Rearing  up  to  the  cliff1 — roaring  back  as  before, 
But  no  wave  ever  brought  the  lost  youth  to  the  shore. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL-BOB  CRATCHIT'S  DINNER. -DICKENS. 

BUT  soon  the  steeples  called  good  people  all,  to  church  and 
chapel,  and  away  they  came,  flocking  through  the  streets  in 
their  best  clothes,  and  with  their  gayest  faces.  And  at  the 
same  time  there  emerged  from  scores  of  bye-streets,  lanes,  and 
nameless  turnings,  innumerable  people,  carrying  their  dinners 
to  the  bakers'  shops.  The  sight  of  these  poor  revellers  appeared 
to  interest  the  Spirit  very  much,  for  he  stood  with  Scrooge  be- 
side him  in  a  baker's  doorway,  and  taking  off  the  covers  as 
their  bearers  passed,  sprinkled  incense  on  their  dinners  from  his 
torch.  And  it  was  a  very  uncommon  kind  of  torch,  for  once 
or  twice  when  there  were  angry  words  between  some  dinner- 


TILK    LADIES'  READK R.  85 

carriers  who  had  jostled  with  each  other,  he  shed  a  few  drops 
<>t'  water  on  them  from  it,  and  their  good  humor  was  restored 
directly.  For  they  said,  it  was  a  shame  to  quarrel  upon  Christ- 
inas 1  )ay.  And  so  it  was!  God  love  it,  so  it  was ! 

••  N  there  a  peculiar  flavor  in  what  you  sprinkle  from  your 
torch  .'"  asked  Scrooge. 
"There  is.      My  own." 

"  Would  it  apply  to  any  kind  of  dinner  on  this  day?"  asked 
Scrooge. 

••To  any  kindly  ^iven.     To  a  poor  one  most." 
"  Why  i"  a  poor  one  most?"  asked  Scrooge. 
"  Because  it  needs  it  most." 

M  Scrooge,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "I  wonder 
you,  of  all  the  beings  in  the  many  worlds  about  us,  should  de- 
sin-  to  cramp  th"sc  peopl, 's  opportunities  of  innocent  enjoy- 
ment r 

-  1  I"  cried  the  Spirit. 

"  You  would  deprive  them  of  their  means  of  dining  every 
th  day,  often  the  only  day  on  which  they  can  be  said  to 

iid  Scrooge.     "  Wouldn't  you  ?" 
"  !  I"  cried  the  Spirit. 

"on  seek  to  close  these  places  on  the  Seventh  Day?"  said 
Scrooge.     "  And  it  comes  to  the  same  thing." 
"I  seek!'    exclaimed  the  Spirit. 

••  Forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong.  It  has  been  done  in  your  name, 
or,  at  lea*-!,  in  that  of  your  family,"  said  Scrooge. 

"There  arc  some  upon  this  earth  of  yours,"  returned  the  Spirit, 
"who  lay  claim  to  know  us,  and  who  do  their  deeds  of  passion, 
pride,  ill-will,  luitivd,  envy,  bigotry,  and  selfishness  in  our  name; 
who  and  all  our  kith  and  kin,  as  if  they  had 

r  lived.     Remember  that,  and  charge  their  doings  on  them- 
selves, not  us." 

Scrooge  promised  that  lie  would;  and  they  went  on,  invisible, 
as  they  had  Keen  before,  into  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  It  was 
a  remarkable  Duality  <>f  the  (J host  (which  Scrooge  had  observed 
at  the  baker's),  that,  notwithstanding  his  gigantic  size,  he  could 
accommodate  himself  to  anyplace  with  ease;  and  that  he  stood 
beneath  a  low  roof  ,|iiiie  as  gracefully  and  like  a  supernatural 
crcatun-,  possible  he  could  have  done,  in  any  lofty 

hall. 

And  perhaps  it  was  the  pleasure  the  good  Spirit  had  in  show- 
ing oft' this  power  of  his,  or  else  it  was  his  own  kind,  generous, 
hearty  nature,  and  his  M-mpathy  with  all  poor  men,  that  led 


86  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

him  straight  to  Scrooge's  clerk's ;  for  there  he  went,  and  took 
Scrooge  with  him,  holding  to  his  robe ;  and  on  the  threshold 
of  the  door  the  Spirit  smiled,  and  stopped  to  bless  Bob  Cratch- 
it's  dwelling  with  the  sprinklings  of  his  torch.  Think  of  that ! 
Bob  had  but  fifteen  shillings  a  week  himself;  and  yet  the  Ghost 
of  Christmas  Present  blessed  his  four-roomed  house  ! 

Then  up  rose  Mrs.  Cratchit,  Cratchit's  wife,  dressed  out  but 
poorly  in  a  twice-turned  gown,  but  brave  in  ribands,  which  are 
cheap  and  make  a  goodly  show  for  sixpence ;  and  she  laid  the 
cloth,  assisted  by  Belinda  Cratchit,  second  of  her  daughters, 
also  brave  in  ribands ;  while  Master  Peter  Cratchit  plunged  a 
fork  into  the  saucepan  of  potatoes,  and  getting  the  corners  of 
his  monstrous  shirt-collar  (Bob's  private  property,  conferred 
upon  his  son  and  heir  in  honor  of  the  day)  into  his  mouth,  re- 
joiced to  find  himself  so  gallantly  attired,  and  yearned  to  show 
his  linen  in  the  fashionable  parks.  And  now  two  smaller 
Cratchits,  boy  and  girl,  came  tearing  in,  screaming  that  outside 
the  baker's  they  had  smelt  the  goose,  and  known  it  for  their 
own ;  and  basking  in  the  luxurious  thoughts  of  sage-and-onions, 
these  young  Cratchits  danced  about  the  table,  and  exalted  Mas- 
ter Peter  Cratchit  to  the  skies,  while  he  (not  proud,  although 
his  collars  nearly  choked  him)  blew  the  fire,  until  the  slow  po- 
tatoes, bubbling  up,  knocked  loudly  at  the  saucepan-lid,  to  be 
let  out  and  peeled. 

"  What  has  ever  got  your  precious  father,  then  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit.  "  And  your  brother,  Tiny  Tim ;  and  Martha  warn't  as 
late  last  Christmas  Day,  by  half  an  hour !" 

"  Here's  Martha,  mother  !"  said  a  girl,  appearing  as  she  spoke. 

"  Here's  Martha,  mother !"  cried  the  two  young  Cratchits. 
"  Hurrah  !  There's  such  a  goose,  Martha !" 

"Why,  bless  your  heart  alive,  my  dear,  how  late  you  are  !" 
said  Mrs.  Cratchit,  kissing  her  a  dozen  times,  and  taking  off  her 
shawl  and  bonnet  for  her,  with  officious  zeal. 

"  We'd  a  deal  of  work  to  finish  up  last  night,"  replied  the  girl, 
"  and  had  to  clear  away  this  morning,  mother !" 

"  Well !  Never  mind,  so  long  as  you  are  come,"  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit.  "  Sit  ye  down  before  the  fire,  my  dear,  and  have  a 
warm,  Lord  bless  ye !" 

"  No,  no  !  There's  father  coming,"  cried  the  two  young 
Cratchits,  who  were  every  where  at  once.  "  Hide,  Martha, 
hide !" 

So  Martha  hid  herself,  and  in  came  little  Bob,  the  father,  with 
at  least  three  feet  of  comforter,  exclusive  of  the  fringe,  hanging 


THE  LADIKS'  11KADER.  87 

down  before  him  ;  and  his  threadbare  clothes  darned  up  and 
brushed  to  look  seasonable;  and  Tiny  Titn  upon  his  shoulder. 
Alas  lor  Tiny  Tim,  he  bore  a  little  crutch,  and  had  his  limbs 
supported  by  an  iron  t'nime ! 

"  Why,  whore's  our  Martha?"  cried  Bob  Cratchit,  looking 
round. 

"Not  coming  I"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

••  Not  coming!"  said  l>ol>,  with  a  sudden  declension  in  his 
high  spirits  ;  for  he  had  boon  Tim's  blood  horse  all  the  way  from 
cliiirel),  and  had  eoim-  home  rampant.  "Not  coining  upon 
Christina^  Day  '." 

Martha  didn't  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if  it  were  only  in 
a  joke;  so  she  came  out  prematurely  from  behind  the  closet 
door,  and  ran  into  hU  arms,  while  the  two  young  Cratchits 
hustled  Tiny  Tim,  and  bore  him  oft'  into  the  wash-house,  that 
he  mi^-lit  hear  the  pudding  sinking  in  the  copper! 

"And  how  did  little  Tim  behave?"  asked  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
when  she  had  rallied  JJob  on  his  credulity,  and  Bob  had  hugged 
his  daughter  to  hi-  heart's  content. 

"Aa  - 1  aa  -'"Id,"  said  Bob,  **and  better.  Somehow  he 

thoughtful  sitting  by  himself  so  much,  and  thinks  the 
strangest  things  you  ever  heard.  He  told  me,  coming  home, 
that  lie  hoped  the  people  saw  him  in  the  church,  because  he 
was  a  cripple,  and  it  might  be  pleasant  to  them  to  remember 
upon  Cliri>tmas  Day,  who  made  lame  beggars  walk,  and  blind 
men 

i;<>  was  tiviiiulous  \vhen  he  told  them  this,  and  trem- 

\\ln-n  he  >aid  that  Tiny  Tim  was  growing  strong  and 
hearty. 

UN  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and  back 
came  Tiny  Tim  before  another  word  was  spoken,  escorted  by 
liis  brother  and  >i>ter  to  his  stool  beside  the  fire;  and  while  Bob, 
turning  up  his  ciifl's,  as  if,  poor  fellow,  they  were  capable  of  be- 
iii'j;  made  more  shabby — compounded  some  hot  mixture  in  a 
jug  with  gin  and  lemons,  and  stirred  it  round  and  round,  and 
put  it  on  the  hob  to  >immer;  Master  Peter  and  the  two  ubiqui- 
•  teliits  \\eiit  to  fetch  the  goose,  with  which  they 
soon  returned  in  high  procession. 

Such  a  hustle,  ensued  that  you  might  have  thought  a  goose 
the  r  :11  birds;  a  feathered  phenomenon,  to  which  a 

black  MOM  was  a  matter  of  course:  and,  in  truth,  it  was  some- 
thing very  like  it  in  that  house.  Mrs.  Cratchit  made  the  gravy 
(ready  beforehand  in  a  little  saucepan)  hissing  hot;  Master 


88  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

Peter  mashed  the  potatoes  with  incredible  vigor ;  Miss  Belinda 
sweetened  up  the  apple-sauce ;  Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates ; 
Bob  took  Tiny  Tim  beside  him  in  a  tiny  corner,  at  the  table; 
the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for  everybody,  not  forgetting 
themselves,  and  mounting  guard  upon  their  posts,  crammea 
spoons  into  their  mouths,  lest  they  should  shriek  for  goose  be- 
fore their  turn  came  to  be  helped.  At  last  the  dishes  were  set 
on,  and  grace  was  said.  It  was  succeeded  by  a  breathless 
pause,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit,  looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving 
knife,  prepared  to  plunge  it  in  the  breast ;  but  when  she  did, 
and  when  the  long-expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one 
murmur  of  delight  arose  all  round  the  board,  and  evfen  Tiny 
Tim,  excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the  table  with 
the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly  cried  hurrah ! 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  didn't  believe 
there  ever  was  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tenderness  and  flavor, 
size  and  cheapness,  were  the  themes  of  universal  admiration. 
Eked  out  by  the  apple-sauce  and  mashed  potatoes,  it  was  a 
sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole  family ;  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit 
said  with  great  delight  (surveying  one  small  atom  of  a  bone  on 
the  dish),  they  hadn't  ate  it  all  at  last !  Yet  every  one  had 
had  enough,  and  the  youngest  Cratchits  in  particular  were 
steeped  in  sage  and  onion  to  the  eyebrows!  But  now,  the 
plates  being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda,  Mrs.  Cratchit  left  the 
room  alone — too  nervous  to  bear  witnesses — to  take  the  pud- 
ding up,  and  bring  it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough !  Suppose  it  should 
break  in  turning  out !  Suppose  somebody  should  have  got  over 
the  wall  of  the  back-yard,  and  stolen  it,  while  they  were  merry 
Avith  the  goose;  a  supposition  at  which  the  two  young  Cratchits 
became  livid!  All  sorts  of  horrors  were  supposed. 

Hallo !  A  great  deal  of  steam !  The  pudding  was  out  of  the 
copper.  A  smell  like  a  washing-day !  That  was  the  cloth.  A 
smell  like  an  eating-house  and  a  pastry  cook's  next  door  to 
oach  other,  with  a  laundress's  next  door  to  that  ?  That  was 
the  pudding.  In  half  a  minute  Mrs.  Cratchit  entered  :  flushed, 
bat  fouling  proudly:  with  the  pudding  like  a  speckled  cannon- 
hall,  so  hard  and  firm,  blazing  in  half  of  half-a-quartcrn  of  ig- 
nited brandy,  and  bedight  with  Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the 
top. 

Oh,  a  wonderful  pudding !  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and  calmly 
too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest  success  achieved  by  Mrs. 
Cratchit  since  their  marriage.  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  that  now  the 


THE   LADIES'  RKADEU. 


89 


f  her  mind,  she  would  confess  she  had  had  her 
doubts  about  the  quantity  of  flour.  Everybody  had  something 
3  about  it,  but  nobody  said  or  thought  it  AMIS  at  all  a  small 
pudding  for  so  large  a  family.  It  would  have  been  flat  heresy 
t«»  do  Mt  Any  Crate-hit  would  have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a 
tlii: 

At  la>t  tin-  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared,  the 
hearth  swept  and  the  fire  made  up.  The  compound  in  the  jug 
beii:'_  'id  con-idored  perfect,  apples  and  oranges  were 

put  upon  the  table,  and  a  shovel-full  of  chestnuts  on  the  fire. 
Thru  all  the  Cratchit  familv  drew  round  the  hearth,  in  what 
Bob  Cratcliit  called  a  circle,  meaning  half  a  one;  and  at  Bob 
Cratchit's  elbow  stood  the  family  display  of  glass  ;  two  tumblers, 
and  a  custard-cup  without  a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jim1,  however,  as  well  as 
golden  goblets  would  have  done;  and  Bob  served  it  out  with 
beaming  looks,  while  the  chestnuts  on  the  fire  sputtered  and 
cracked  noisily.  Then  Hob  proposed: 

"  \  <   hrUtmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.     God  bless  us!" 

\\  hi'-h  all  the  familv  re-eehued. 

"God  ble-s  us  every  one!"  said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of  all. 
lie  >at  very  close  to  his  father's  side,  upon  his  little  stool. 
Hob  held  his  withered  little  hand  in  his,  as  if  he  loved  the  child, 
and  wi>he«!  to  keep  him  by  his  side,  and  dreaded  that  he  might 

.'•n  from  him. 
'•Spirit,"  said  Scrooge,  with  an  interest  that  he  never  felt 

•  11  me  if  Tiny  Tim  will  live." 

"  1  lit  seat,  '  replied  the  <;host,  "in  the  poor  chim- 

ney c-  la  crutch  without  an  owner,  carefully  preserved. 

If  tlie.-c  shadow.-,  remain  unaltered  by  the  future,  the  child  will 
die." 

"No,  n<',  --rooge.     "Oh  no,  kind  Spirit!  say  he  will 

red." 

••  It'the-e  >hado\vs  remain  unaltered  by  the  future,  none  other 
of  my  race,"  returned  the  (lln-st,  "will  find  him  here.  What, 
lik"  to  die,  he  had  better  do  it,  and  decrease  the 
surplus  population.'1 

Srp.oge  hung  his  head  to  hear  his  own  words  quoted  by  the 
Spirit,  and  wa>  ovi  ith  penitence  and  grief. 

".Man,"  said  the  <  Jlmst,  "if  man  you  be  in  heart,  not  ada- 
mant, forbear  that  wieked  cant  until  you  have  discovered  what 
irpiofl  IS,  and  when-  it  is.  \Vill  you  <lecide  what  men  shall 
live,  what  inuii  shall  die.'  It  mav  be  thai  in  the  sight  of  heaven 


90  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

you  are  more  worthless  and  less  fit  to  live  than  millions  like  this 
poor  man's  child.  Oh  God  !  to  hear  the  insect  on  the  leaf  pro- 
nouncing on  the  too  much  life  among  his  hungry  brothers  in 
the  dust !" 

Scrooge  bent  before  the  Ghost's  rebuke,  and  trembling  cast 
his  eyes  upon  the  ground.  But  he  raised  them  speedily,  on 
hearing  his  own  name. 

"  Mr.  Scrooge  !"  said  Bob ;  "  I'll  give  you  Mr.  Scrooge,  the 
Founder  of  the  Feast !" 

"The  Founder  of  the  Feast,  indeed!"  cried  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
reddening.  "  I  wish  I  had  him  here.  I'd  give  him  a  piece  of 
my  mind  to  feast  upon,  and  I  hope  he'd  have  a  good  appetite 
for  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Bob,  "  the  children  ;  Christmas  Day." 

"It  should  be  Christmas  Day,  I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "on 
which  one  drinks  the  health  of  such  an  odious,  stingy,  hard, 
unfeeling  man  as  Mr.  Scrooge.  You  know  he  is,  Robert !  No- 
body knows  it  better  than  you  do,  poor  fellow  !" 

"  My  dear,"  was  Bob's  mild  answer,  "  Christmas  Day." 

"  I'll  drink  his  health  for  your  sake,  and  the  day's,"  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit,  "  not  for  his.  Long  life  to  him !  A  merry  Christmas 
and  a  happy  New  Year ! — he'll  be  very  merry  and  very  happy, 
I  have  no  doubt !" 

The  children  drank  the  toast  after  her.  It  was  the  first  of 
their  proceedings  which  had  no  heartiness  in  it.  Tiny  Tim 
drank  it  last  of  all,  but  he  didn't  care  twopence  for  it.  Scrooge 
was  the  Ogre  of  the  family.  The  mention  of  his  name  cast  a 
dark  shadow  on  the  party  which  was  not  dispelled  for  full  five 
minutes. 

After  it  had  passed  away,  they  were  ten  times  merrier  than 
before,  from  the  mere  relief  of  Scrooge  the  Baleful  being  done 
with.  Bob  Cratchit  told  them  how  he  had  a  situation  in  his 
eye  for  Master  Peter,  which  would  bring  in,  if  obtained,  full 
five  and  sixpence  weekly.  The  two  young  Cratchits  laughed 
tremendously  at  the  idea  of  Peter's  being  a  man  of  business; 
and  Peter  himself  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  fire  from  between 
his  collars,  as  if  he  were  deliberating  what  particular  invest- 
ments he  should  favor  when  he  came  into  the  receipt  of  that 
bewildering  income.  Martha,  who  was  a  poor  apprentice  at  a 
milliner's,  then  told  them  what  kind  of  work  she  had  to  do,  and 
how  many  hours  she  worked  at  a  stretch,  and  how  she  meant 
to  lie  abed  to-morrow  morning  for  a  good  long  rest ;  to-morrow 
being  a  holiday,  she  passed  at  home.  Also  how  she  had  seen  a 


TIIK   LAD1KS'  READER.  91 

countess  and  a  lord,  some  days  before,  and  how  the  lord  was 
much  about  as  tall  as  IVter;  at  which  Peter  pulled  up  his  col- 
lars so  high  that  you  couldn't  have  seen  his  head  if  you  had 
been  there.  All  this  time  the  chestnuts  and  the  jug  went  round 
and  round  ;  ami  bye  and  bye  they  had  a  song,  about  a  lost  child 
travelling  in  the  snow,  from  Tiny  Tim;  who  had  a  plaintive  lit- 
tle voice,  and  sang  it  very  well,  indeed. 

Tli'  'thing  of  high  mark  in  this.     They  were  not  a 

handsome  family  ;  they  were  not  well  dressed;  their  shoes  were 
far  from  1  rproof;  their  clothes  were  scanty;  and  Peter 

might  have  known,  and  very  likely  did,  the  inside  of  a  pawn- 
broker's. But  they  were  happy, grateful,  pleased  with  one  an- 
other, and  contented  with  the  time;  and  when  they  faded,  and 
looked  happier  yet  in  the  bright  sparklings  of  the  Spirit's  torch 
at  parting,  Scrooge  had  his  eye  upon  them,  and  especially  on 
Tiny  Tim,  until  the  last. 


THE  STAR  AND  IHE  WATER-LILY—  OLIYER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  Sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 

slee])y  thing  was  she ; 
What  is  the  Lily  dreaming  of? 

Why  crisp  the  waters  blue? 
See,  see,  she  is  lifting  her  varnish'd  lid ! 

1 1 .  !•  v,  hit  •  glistening  through ! 

The  Rose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide  ; 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair, 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side ; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true  ; 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  look'd  at  the  sky  so  blue. 

Remember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride  ? 
"  0,  the  Rose  is  old,  and  thorny  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,"  said  she  ; 
"But  the  Star  is  fair,  and  he  lives  in  the  air, 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be." 


no  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  shall  come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea  ? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant  sky, 

To  smile  on  a  thing  like  thee  ? 
0,  no !  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne ; 
The  winds  shall  blow  and  the  waves  shall  flow, 

And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain-top, 

Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the  sparkling  shore, 

Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 
That  he  has  not  cheered  with  his  fickle  smile, 

And  warm'd  with  his  faithless  beam — 
And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower 

That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 

Alas,  for  the  Lily !  she  would  not  heed, 

But  turned  to  the  skies  afar, 
And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling  ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star ; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darken'd  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide ; 
She  look'd  in  vain  through  the  beating  rain, 

And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


CHRISTABEL— COLEKIDGE. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  massy  leafless  boughs, 
Kneeling  in  the  moonlight 

To  make  her  gentle  vows: 
Her  slender  palms  together  press'd, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  0  call  it  fair,  not  pale  ! 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

0  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 

Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

0  Geraldine !  one  hour  was  thine — 

Thou  hast  thy  will.     By  tarn  and  rill 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 


TI1K    LAD  IKS'   READER  9,3 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliff  and  tower  tu-whoo!  tu-whoo! 
Tu-whoo !  tu- \vhoo  I  from  wood  and  fell 

And  see !  the  lady  Christabel 
(J^thers  herself  from  out  her  trance; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance* 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes ;  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile, 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light. 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 

a  youthful  hermitess 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 

prayiiKj  always,  j  trays  in  8l 
And.  if  she  move  uuquietly, 
Perchance  't  is  but  the  blood  so  free 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt  she  hath  a  vision  s\ 
AVhat  if  her  guardian  spirit  'i  were? 
What  if  she  kne\v  her  inuther  near? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
The  saints  will  aid,  if  men  will  call, 

blue  sky  bends  over  all. 
***** 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrank  in  her  head, 
Each  shrank  up  to  a  serpent's  eye ; 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice  and  more  of  dreTtd, 
At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance. 
*  *  :  *  * 

Tin-  maid  devoid  of  guile  and  sin 
I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise, 

•  ly  had  she  druukcnyki 
That  look,  those  .-  rpent  eyes, 

That  all  her  features  were  resiuii'd 
To  this  sole  imago  in  her  mind, 
And  passively  did  imitate 
Thatjook  of  dutt  and  treacherous  hate. 


TIIK  INDIAN  WOMAN'S  LAMENT^Mm  HEMANS. 

An  Indian  woman,  driven  to  despair  by  her  husband's  desertion  of  her 
for  another  wife,  enter  \vitli  her  children,  and  rowed  it  down 

the  Mississippi  toward  a  eatar.-u-t.     Her  voice  was  heard  from  the  shore 
a  mournful  death-song,  until  overpowered  by  the  sound  of  the 


94  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

waters,  in  which  she  perished. — Long's  Expedition  to  the  Source  of  Si. 
Peter's  River. 

Down  a  broad  river  of  the  western  wilds, 
Piercing  thick  forest  glooms,  a  light  canoe 
Swept  with  the  current :  fearful  was  the  speed 
Of  the  frail  bark,  as  by  tempest's  wing 
Borne  leaf-like  on  to  where  the  mist  of  spray 
Rose  with  the  cataract's  thunder.     Yet  within, 
Proudly,  and  dauntlessly,  and  all  alone 
Save  that  a  babe  lay  sleeping  at  her  breast, 
A  woman  stood :  upon  her  Indian  brow 
Sat  a  strange  gladness,  and  her  dark  hair  waved 
As  if  triumphantly.     She  press'd  her  child, 
In  its  bright  slumber  to  her  beating  heart, 
And  lifted  her  sweet  voice,  that  rose  awhile 
Above  the  sound  of  waters,  high  and  clear 
Wafting  a  wild  proud  strain,  her  song  of  death  : 

Roll  swiftly  to  the  spirit's  land,  thou  mighty  stream  and  free  I 

Father  of  ancient  waters,  roll !  and  bear  our  lives  with  thee ! 

The  weary  bird  that  storms  have  toss'd,  would  seek  the  sunshin's  calm, 

And  the  deer  that  hath  the  arrow's  hurt,  flies  to  the  woods  of  balm ; 

Roll  on !  my  warrior's  eye  hath  look'd  upon  another's  face, 

And  mine  hath  faded  from  his  soul,  as  fades  a  moonbeam's  trace  ; 

My  shadow  comes  not  o'er  his  path,  my  whisper  to  his  dream, 

He  flings  away  the  broken  reed — roll  swifter  yet,  thou  stream ! 

The  voice  that  spoke  of  other  days  is  hush'd  within  his  breast, 

But  mine  its  lonely  music  haunts,  and  will  not  let  me  rest. 

It  sings  a  low  and  mournful  song  of  gladness  that  is  gone, 

I  cannot  live  without  that  light — Father  of  waves !  roll  on ! 

"Will  he  not  miss  the  bounding  step  that  met  him  from  the  chase  ? 

The  heart  of  love  that  made  his  home  an  ever-sunny  place  ? 

The  hand  that  spread  the  hunter's  board,  and  deck'd  his  couch  of  yore  ? 

He  will  not ! — roll,  dark,  foaming  stream,  ON  to  the  BETTER  SHORE  ! 

Some  blessed  fount  amidst  the  woods  of  that  bright  land  must  flow, 

Whose  waters  from  my  soul  may  lave  the  memory  of  this  woe ; 

Some  gentle  wind  must  whisper  there,  whose  breath  may  waft  away 

The  burden  of  the  heavy  night,  the  sadness  of  the  day. 

And  thou  my  babe  !  though  born,  like  me,  for  woman's  weary  lot, 

Smile ! — to  that  wasting  of  the  heart,  my  own !  I  leave  thee  not — 

Too  bright  a  thing  art  thou,  to  pine  in  aching  love  away — 

Thy  mother  bears  thee,  fair  young  Fawn  !  from  Sbrrow  and  decay ; 

She  bears  thee,  to  the  glorious  bowers  where  none  are  heard  to  weep, 

And  where  th'  unkind  one  hath  no  power  again  to  trouble  sleep; 

And  where  the  soul  shall  find  its  youth,  as  wak'ning  from  a  dream — 

One  moment,  and  that  realm  is  ours — on,  on,  dark  rolling  stream  ! 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  95 


HALF-LINGTH^PROM  LIFE-OPERATIVE  DEMOGRACY.- 

'•  A  theme  of  perilous  risk  i 

Thou  handiest,  and  hot  tires  beneath  thy  path 
The  treacherous  ashes  nurse." 

"CAN'T  you  let  our  folks  have  some  eggs?"  said  Daniel  Web 
stcr  Larkins,  opening  the  door,  and  putting  in  a  little  straw- 
colored  head  ami  a  pair  of  very  mild  blue  eyes  just  far  enough 
to  reconnoitre ;  "  can't  you  let  our  folks  have  some  eggs  ?  Our 
old  hen  don't  lay  nothing  but  chickens  now,  and  mother  can't 
eat  pork,  and  she  a'n't  had  no  breakfast,  and  the  baby  a'n't 
drest,  nor  nothin' !" 

'•What  is  the  matter,  \Yebster?     Where's  your  girl? 
"Oh  !   \ve  ha'n't  no  girl  but  father,  and  he's  had  to  go  'way 
an1 — and  mother  wants  to  know  if  you  can't  tell 
her  where  to  get  a  girl  ?" 

Poor  Mrs.  Larkins  !     Her  husband  makes  but  an  indifferent 
"girl,"  bi-ing  a  remarkable  public-spirited  person.     The  good 
IB  in  very  delicate  health,  and  having  an  incredible  number 
of  little  blue  eyes  constantly  making  fresh  demands  upon  her 
time  and  strength,  she  usually  keeps  a  girl  when  she  can  get 
one.     When  she  cannot,  which  is  unfortunately  the  larger  part 
of  tlu.'  time,  her  husband  dresses  the  children — mixes  stir-cakes 
for  ihe  eldest  blue  eyes  to  bake  on  a  griddle,  which  is  never  at 
-milks   the  cow — feeds  the  pigs — and  then  goes  to  his 
"  business,"  which  we  have  supposed  to  consist  principally  in 
helping  at   rai>'mu's  \\<n>d-hees,  huskings,  and  suchlike  impor- 
.•  i  flairs  ;  and  "  girl"  hunting — the  most  important  and  ardu- 
ous, and  profitless  of  all. 

Yet  it  niu-t  be  owned  that  Mr.  Larkins  is  a  tolerable  carpen- 

:id  that  he   buys  as  many  comforts  for  his  family  as  most 

of  his  neighbors,     the  main  difficulty  seems  to  be  that  "help" 

:i  purchasable.     The  very  small  portion  of  our  dam- 

'.ho  \\ill  consent  to  enter  anybody's  doors  for  pay,  makes 

base  after  them  quite  interesting  from  its  uncertainty;  and 

the  damsels  themselves,  subject  to  a  well  known  foible  of  their- 

<-ry  coy  from  being  over-courted.     Such  racing 

ami   chasing,   and   begging  and  praying,  to  get  a  girl  for  a 

month  !    They  are  often  got  for  life  with  half  the  trouble.    But 

urn. 
Jlavinir  an  esteem  for  Mrs.  Larkins,  and  a  sincere  experi- 


OC  THE   LADIES'  REAPER. 

mental  pity  for  the  forlorn  condition  of  "no  girl  but  father,"  I 
set  out  at  once  to  try  if  female  tact  and  perseverance  might 
not  prove  effectual  in  ferreting  out  a  "  help,"  though  mere  in- 
dustry had  not  succeeded.  For  this  purpose  I  made  a  list  in 
my  mind  of  those  neighbors,  in  the  first  place,  whose  daugh- 
ters sometimes  condescended  to  be  girls;  and,  secondly,  of 
the  few  who  were  enabled  by  good  luck,  good  management, 
and  good  pay,  to  keep  them.  If  I  failed  in  my  attempts  upon 
one  class,  I  hoped  for  some  new  lights  from  the  other.  When 
the  object  is  of  such  importance,  it  is  well  to  string  one's  bow 
double. 

In  the  first  category  stood  Mrs.  Lowndes,  whose  forlorn  log- 
house  had  never  known  door  or  window  ;  a  blanket  supplying 
the  place  of  the  one,  and  the  other  being  represented  by  a  crev- 
ice between  the  logs.  Lifting  the  sooty  curtain  with  some  timid- 
ity, I  found  the  dame  with  a  sort  of  reel  before  her,  trying  to 
wind  some  dirty,  tangled  yarn;  and  ever  and  anon  kicking  at  a 
basket  which  hung  suspended  from  the  beam  overhead  by  means 
of  a  strip  of  hickory  bark.  This  basket  contained  a  nest  of  rags 
and  an  indescribable  baby ;  and  in  the  ashes  on  the  rough  hearth 
played  several  dingy  objects,  which  I  suppose  had  once  been 
babies. 

"  Is  your  daughter  at  home  now,  Mrs.  Lowndes  ?" 

"  Well  yes !  M'randy's  to  hum,  but  she's  out  now.  Did  you 
want  her  ?" 

"I  came  to  see  if  she  could  go  to  Mrs.  Larkins,  who  is  very 
unwell,  and  sadly  in  want  of  help." 

"  Miss  Larkins  !  why,  do  tell !  I  want  to  know  !  Is  she  sick 
agin  ?  and  is  her  gal  gone  ?  Why  !  I  want  to  know !  I  thought 
she  had  Lo-i-sy  Paddon  !  Is  Lo-i-sy  gone  ?" 

"I  suppose  so.  You  will  let  Miranda  go  to  Mrs.  Larkins,  will 
you?" 

"  Well,  I  donnow  but  I  would  let  her  go  for  a  spell,  just  to 
'commodate  'em.  M'randy  may  go  if  she's  a  mind  ter.  She 
needn't  live  out  unless  she  chooses.  She's  got  a  comfortable 
home,  and  no  thanks  to  nobody.  What  wages  do  they  jvivc  T' 

"  A  dollar  a  week." 

"  Eat  at  the  table  ?" 

"Oh!  certainly." 

"Have  Sundays?" 

"  Why  no — I  believe  not  the  whole  of  Sunday — the  children 
you  know — " 

"  Oh  ho  !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Lowndes,  with  a  most  disdainful 


HIE  LADIES'  READER.  97 

;'  the  head,  giving  at  the  same  time  a  vigorous  impulse  to 
the  cradle,  "  if  fiat's  how  it  is,  M'randy  don't'stir  a  step  !  She 
don't  live  nowhere  if  she  can't  come  home  Saturday  night  and 

•ill  Monday  morning." 

1  took  my  leave  without  farther  parley,  having  often  found 
this  point  the  AIM  fjna  non  in  such  negotiations, 

My  next  effort  was  at  a  pretty-looking  cottage,  whose  over- 
hanging roof  and  neat   outer  arrangements,  spoke  of  English 
ownership.     The  int.-rior  by  no  means  corresponded  with  the 
.  beiiiLT  even  more  bare  thnn  usual,  and  far  from 
.      The    presiding   power  was   a  prodigious  creature,   who 
looked  like  a  man  in  woman's  clothes,  and  whose  blazing  face, 
ornamented  here  and  there  by  great  hair  moles,  spoke  very  in- 
telligently of  the  beer  barrel,  if  of  nothing  more  exciting.     A 
daughter  of  this  virago  had  <>nee  lived  in  my  family,  and  the 
inoth'T  mcf  me  with  an  air  of  defiance,  as  if  she  thought  I  had 
come   with  an   accusation.      When  I  unfolded  my  errand,  her 
ned  ;i  little,  but  she  scornfully  rejected  the  idea  of 
her  Lucy  living  with  any  more  Yankees. 

'*  You  pretend  to  think  everybody  alike,"  said  she,  "  but 
when  it  comes  to  the  pint,  you're  a  sight  more  uppish  and 
saucy  than  the  ra'al  Duality  at  home;  and  I'll  seethe  whole 

Yankee  race  to " 

I  made  my  c\it  without  waiting  for  the  conclusion  of  this 
complimentary  observation  ;  and  the  less  reluctantly  for  having 
observed  on  the  table  the  lower  part  of  one  of  my  silver  tea- 
spoons, the  top  of  which  had  been  violently  wrenched  off.  This 
spoon  was  a  well-renienihi-ivd  ],»>  during  Lucy's  administration, 
and  I  knew  that  Mr-.  Larkins  had  none  to  spare. 

thus  far  among  the  arbiters  of  our  destiny,  I 
thought  I  would  .-top  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  make  some 
inhumes  which   mi-_rlit    spare   me  farther  rebuffs.     On  making 
my  way  by  the  garden  gate  to  the  little  library  where  I  usually 
-au   Mix  Stavner,  I  was  surprised  to  find  it  silent  and  uninhab- 
The  \\indo\vs  were  closed;  a  half-finished  cap  lay  on  the 
and  a  bunch  of  yesterday's  wild-flowers  upon  the  table. 
All  spoke  of  doolation.     The  cradle — not  exactly  an  appropri- 
Ijunct  of  a  library  scene  elsewhere,  but  quite  so  at  the 
I--,  and  the  little  rocking-chair  was  nowhere^to 
n.      1  went  on   through  parlor  and  hall,  finding  no  sign 
of  lite,  save  the   breakfast -table   still   standing  with  crumbs  un- 
disturbed.     Where  bells  are  not  known  ceremony  is  out  of  the 
;  so  I  penetrated  even  to  th'e  kitchen,  where  at  length 


98  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

T 

I  caught  sight  of  the  fair  face  of  my  friend.  She  was  bending 
over  the  bread-tray,  and  at  the  same  time  telling  nursery-stories 
as  fast  as  possible,  by  way  of  coaxing  her  little  boy  of  four  years 
old  to  rock  the  cradle  which  contained  his  baby  sister. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing  more  than  usual.  My  Polly  took  herself  off 
yesterday  without  a  moment's  warning,  saying  she  thought  she 
had  lived  out  about  long  enough;  and  poor  Tom,  our  factotum, 
has  the  ague.  Mr.  Stayner  has  gone  to  some  place  sixteen  miles 
off,  where  he  was  told  he  might  hear  of  a  girl,  and  I  am  sole 
representative  of  the  family  energies.  But  you've  no  idea  what 
capital  bread  I  can  make. 

This  looked  rather  discouraging  for  my  quest ;  but  knowing 
that  the  main  point  of  table-companionship  was  the  source  of 
most  of  Mrs.  Stayner' s  difficulties,  I  still  hoped  for  Mrs.  Larkins, 
who  loved  the  closest  intimacy  with  her  "help,"  and  always 
took  them  visiting  with  her.  So  I  passed  on  for  another  effort 
at -Mrs.  Randall's,  whose  three  daughters  had  sometimes  been 
known  to  lay  aside  their  dignity  long  enough  to  obtain  some 
much-coveted  article  of  dress.  Here  the  mop  was  in  full  play ; 
and  Mrs.  Randall,  with  her  gown  turned  up,  was  splashing  di- 
luted mud  on  the  walls  and  furniture,  in  the  received  mode  of 
those  regions,  where  "  stained-glass  windows"  are  made  without 
a  patent.  I  did  not  venture  in,  but  asked  from  the  door  with 
my  best  diplomacy,  whether  Mrs.  Randall  knew  of  a  girl. 

"  A  gal !  no ;  who  wants  a  gal  ?" 

"Mrs.  Larkins." 

"  She  !  why  don't  she  get  up  and  do  her  own  work?" 

"  She  is  too  feeble." 

"  Law  sakes !  too  feeble !  she'd  be  able  as  anybody  to  thrash 
round,  if  her  old  man  didn't  spile  her  by  waitin'  on " 

We  think  Mrs.  Larkin  deserves  small  blame  on  this  score. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Randall,  the  poor  woman  is  really  ill  and  unable 
to  do  anything  for  her  children.  Couldn't  you  spare  Rachel  for 
a  few  days  to  help  her  ?" 

This  was  said  in  a  most  guarded  and  deprecatory  tone,  and 
with  a  manner  carefully  moulded  between  indifference  and  un- 
due solicitude. 

"My  gals  has  got  enough  to  do.  They  a' n't  able  to  do  their 
own  work.  Cur'line  hasn't  been  worth  the  fust  red  cent  for 
hard  work  ever  since  she  went  to  school  to  A ." 

"  Oh  !  I  did  not  expect  to  get  Caroline.  I  understand  she  is 
going  to  get  married." 


Tin-]   LAD  IKS'  TifiADKR.  99 

'•  What  !  toj>ill  (oven  !     She  wouldn't  let  him  walk  where 
she  walked  last     ear;" 


1  saw  I  ha«l  made  a  misstep.  Kesolving  to  be  more 
cautious,  I  left  the  selection  to  the  lady  herself,  and  only  beg- 
iT'-'l  tor  one  of  tin-  girls.  l.ut  my  eloquence  was  wasted.  Tlio 
Mi<s  Randalls  had  l.e.-n  a  whole  quarter  at  a  select  school,  and 
will  not  live  out  again  until  their  present  stork  of  finery  is  un- 
wearable.  Mi--  Kaelu'l,  whoso  company  I  had  hoped  to  se- 
cure, was  even  then  paying  attention  to  a  'branch  of  the  fine  arts. 

'•  Ka-'hel  Amandy!"   cried  Mrs.  Randall  at  the  foot  of  the 

ladder  whieh    u-ave  access  to  the  upper  regions  —  "fetch  that 

thing  down  here!     It's  the  prettiest  tiling  you  ever  see  in  your 

turninir  to  tne.      And  the  educated  young  lady  brought 

down   a   doleful-looking  compound  of  card-board  and  many- 

d    waters,  whieh    had,  it  seems,  occupied  her  mind  and 

lingers  t'»r  tome  d 

"'I'i"  •'•'••"  aid  the  mother,  proudly,  "  :i  gal  that's  learnt  to 
make  rich  aa  that,  a'n't  a  go  in'  to  be  nobody's  help,  I 


I  thought  the  boast  likely  to  be  verified  as  a  prediction,  and 
went  my  way,  crestfallen  and  weary.  <Tirl-lmnting  is  certainly 
among  our  most  formidable  "  chores." 


THi:   It  KO  ATT  A   AT  VKXH'H.— TAMKS  FKNIMOUE  COOPER. 

MCK,  from  h.-r  peculiar  formation  and  the  vast  number  of 
hn-  watermen,   had    loii<_>;  heen   celebrated  for  this  species  of 
amusement.     Families  were  known  and  celebrated  in  her  tra- 
ditions lor  dexterous  -kill  with  the  oar,  as  they  were  known  in 
Rome  f"r  fe.-iis  of  a  far  le»  useful  and  of  a  more  barbarous  na- 
It  was  usual  to  select  from  these  races  of  watermen  the 
most  vigorous  and  skilful;  and,  after  invoking  the  aid  of  patron- 
.  and  arousing  their  ]>ride  and  recollections  by  songs  that 
::it"d  th"  Tents  of  1  heir  ancestors,  to  start  them  for  the  goal 
with  every  incitement  that  pride  and  the  love  of  victory  could 

u. 

MO-:  (/  Ht  tisages  were  still  observed.    Assoonas 

the  IJ;i.-.-iitaur  was  in   its  Mation,  some  thirty  or  forty  gondo- 

brouixht  torth,  clad  in  their  gayest  habiliments  and 

surrounded  and  supported   by  crowds  of  anxious  friends  and 


100  THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 

relatives.  The  intended  competitors  were  expected  to  sustain 
the  long-established  reputations  of  their  several  names,  and 
they  were  admonished  of  the  disgrace  of  defeat.  They  were 
cheered  by  the  men,  and  stimulated  by  the  smiles  and  tears  of 
the  other  sex.  The  rewards  were  recalled  to  their  minds;  they 
were  fortified  by  prayers  to  the  saints;  and  then  they  were  dis- 
missed amid  the  cries  and  the  wishes  of  the  multitude  to  seek 
their  allotted  places  beneath  the  stern  of  the  galley  of  state. 

The  city  of  Venice  is  divided  into  two  nearly  equal  parts  by 
a  channel  much  broader  than  that  of  the  ordinary  passages  of 
the  town.  This  dividing  artery,  from  its  superior  size  and 
depth,  and  its  greater  importance,  is  called  the  grand  canal. 
Its  course  is  not  unlike  that  of  an  undulating  line,  which  greatly 
increases  its  length.  As  it  is  much  used  by  the  larger  boats  of 
the  bay — being  in  fact  a  sort  of  secondary  port — and  its  width 
is  so  considerable,  it  has  throughout  the  whole  distance  but  one 
bridge — the  celebrated  Rialto.  The  regatta  was  to  be  held  on 
this  canal,  which  offered  the  requisites  of  length  and  space,  and 
which,  as  it  was  lined  with  most  of  the  palaces  of  the  principal 
senators,  afforded  all  the  facilities  necessary  for  viewing  the 
struggle. 

In  passing  from  one  end  of  this  long  course  to  the  other,  the 
men  destined  for  the  race  were  not  permitted  to  make  any  ex- 
ertion. Their  eyes  roamed  over  the  gorgeous  hangings,  which, 
as  is  still  wont  throughout  Italy  on  all  days  of  festa,  floated 
from  every  window,  and  on  groups  of  females  in  rich  attire, 
brilliant  with  the  peculiar  charms  of  the  famed  Venetian  beauty 
that  clustered  in  the  balconies.  Those  who  were  domestics  rose 
and  answered  to  the  encouraging  signals  thrown  from  above,  as 
they  passed  the  palaces  of  their  masters ;  while  those  who  were 
watermen  of  the  public  endeavored  to  gather  hope  among  the 
sympathizing  faces  of  the  multitude. 

At  length  every  formality  had  been  duly  observed,  and  the 
competitors  assumed  their  places.  The  gondolas  were  much 
larger  than  those  commonly  used,  and  each  was  manned  by 
three  watermen  in  the  center,  directed  by  a  fourth,  who,  stand- 
ing on  the  little  deck  in  the  stern,  steered  while  he  aided  to 
impel  the  boat.  There  were  light,  low  staffs  in  the  bows,  with 
flags  that  bore  the  distinguishing  colors  of  several  noble  families 
of  the  republic,  or  which  had  such  other  simple  devices  as  had 
been  suggested  by  the  fancies  of  those  to  whom  they  belonged. 
A  few  flourishes  of  the  oars,  resembling  the  preparatory  move- 
ments which  the  muster  of  fence  makes  ere  he  begins  to  push 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  101 

and  parry,  were  given ;  a  whirling  of  the  boats,  like  the  pranc- 
ing of  curbed  ru'-rrs,  succeeded ;  and  then  at  the  report  of  a  gun, 
tin.-  whole  darted  away  as  if  the  gondolas  were  impelled  by  vo- 
lition. The  start  uas  followed  by  a  shout  which  passed  swiftly 
the  canal  and  an  eager  agitation  of  heads  that  went  from 
balcony  to  balcony,  till  the  sympathetic  movement  was  commu- 
nicated to  the  -rave  load  under  which  the  Bucentaur  labored. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  difference  in  force  and  skill  was  not 
»bvi<>us.  Kneh  gondola  glided  along  the  element,  appar- 
ently N\*ith  thai  th  which  a  li^ht- winded  swallow  skims 
the  lake,  and  with  no  visible  advantage  to  any  one  of  the  ten. 
Then,  as  HK-IV  art  in  him  who  steered,  or  greater  powers  of  en- 
durance in  thosr  who  n>\\ed,or  some  of  the  latent  properties  of 
the  boat  itself  came  into  service,  tin-  cluster  of  little  barks  which 
had  conn-  oilTikr  a  closely  united  flock  of  birds  taking  flight  to- 
gether in  alarm,  be-an  to  open  till  they  formed  a  long  and  va- 
cillating line  in  tin-  centre  of  the  passage.  The  whole  train 
shot  beneath  the  bridge,  so  near  each  other  as  to  render  it  still 
doubtful  which  was  to  conquer,  and  the  exciting  strife  came 
more  in  view  of  the  principal  personages  of  the  city. 

lint  here  those  radical  qualities,  which  insure  success  in  ef- 
forts of  this  nature  manifested  themselves.  The  weaker  began 
to  yield,  the  train  to  lengthen,  and  hopes  and  fears  to  increase, 
until  those  in  the  front  presented  the  exhilarating  spectacle  of 
success,,  while  those  behind  offered  the  still  more  noble  sight  of 
men  struggling  without  hope.  Gradually  the  distance  between 
the  boats  increased,  while  that  between  them  and  the  goal  grew 
rapidly  less,  until  three  of  those  in  advance  came  in,  like  glanc- 
rroWB,  beneath  the  stern  of  the  Bucentaur,  with  scarce  a 
length  between  them.  The  pri/o  was  won,  the  conquerors  were 
rewarded,  ami  the  artillery  gave  forth  the  usual  signals  of  re- 
joicing. Music  answered  to  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  peals 
of  bells,  while  sympathy  with  success,  that  predominant  and  so 
often  dangerous  principle  of  our  nature,  drew  shouts  even  from 
the  disappointed. 

The  clamor  ceased,  and  a  herald  proclaimed  aloud  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  and  a  different  struggle.  The  last,  and 
what  might  be  termed  the  national  race,  had  been  limited,  by 
an  ancient  usage,  to  the  known  and  recognized  gondoliers  of 
Venice.  The  pri/.c  had  been  awarded  by  the  state,  and  the 
whole  affair  had  somewhat  of  an  official  and  political  character. 
It  was  now  announced,  however,  that  a  race  was  to  be  run  in 
which  the  reward  was  open  to  all  competitors,  without  question- 


102  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

ing  as  to  their  origin,  or  as  to  their  ordinary  occupations.  An 
oar  of  gold,  to  which  was  attached  a  chain  of  the  same  precious 
metal,  exhibited  as  the  boonc  of  the  doge  to  him  who  showed 
most  dexterity  and  strength  in  this  new  struggle ;  while  a  simi- 
lar ornament  of  silver,  was  to  be  the  portion  of  him  who  showed 
the  second  best  dexterity  and  bottom.  A  mimic  boat  of  less  pre- 
cious metal  was  the  third  prize.  The  gondolas  were  to  be  the 
usual  light  vehicles  of  the  canals,  and  as  the  object  was  to  dis- 
play the  peculiar  skill  of  that  city  of  islands,  but  one  oarsman 
was  allowed  to  each,  on  whom  would  necessarily  fall  th*e  whole 
duty  of  guiding  while  he  impelled  his  little  bark.  Any  of  those 
who  had  been  engaged  in  the  previous  trial  were  admitted  to 
this :  and  all  desirous  of  taking  part  in  the  new  struggle  were 
commanded  to  come  beneath  the  stern  of  the  Bncentaur,  within 
a  prescribed  number  of  minutes,  that  note  might  be  had  of  their 
wishes.  As  notice  of  this  arrangement  had  been  previously 
given,  the  interval  between  the  two  races  was  not  long. 

The  first  who  came  out  of  the  crowd  of  boats  which  envi- 
roned the  vacant  place  that  had  been  left  for  the  competitors, 
was  a  gondolier  of  the  public  landing,  well  known  for  his  skill 
with  the  oar,  and  his  song  on  the  canal. 

"How  art  thou  called,  and  in  whose  name  dost  thou  put  thy 
chance?"  demanded  the  herald  of  this  aquatic  course. 

"All  know  me  for  Bartolomeo,  one  who  lives  between  the 
Piazzetta  and  the  Lido,  and,  like  a  loyal  Venetian,  I  trust  in 
San  Teodoro." 

"  Thou  art  well  protected ;  take  thy  place  and  await  thy  for- 
tune." 

The  conscious  waterman  swept  the  water  with  a  back  stroke 
of  hislblade,  and  the  light  gondola  whirled  away  into  the  cen- 
tre of  the  vacant  spot  like  a  swan  giving  a  sudden  glance  aside. 

"  And  who  art  thou !"  demanded  the  official  of  the  next  that 
came. 

"  Enrico,  a  gondolier  of  Fusina.  I  come  to  try  my  oars  with 
the  braggarts  of  the  canals." 

"  In  whom  is  thy  trust !" 

"  Sant'  Antonio  di  Padua." 

"Thou  wilt  need  his  aid,  though  we  commend  thy  spirit. 
Enter  and  take  place." — "And  who  art  thou?"  he  continued,  to 
another,  when  the  second  had  imitated  the  easy  skill  of  the  first. 

"  I  am  called  Gino  of  Calabria,  a  gondolier  in  private  service." 

"  What  noble  retaineth  thee  ?" 

"  The  illustrious  and  most  excellent  Don  Camillo  Monforte, 


T1IK  LADIES'   READER.  103 

Duca  and  Lord  of  Sant'  Agata  in  Napoli,  and  of  right  a  senator 
in  Yenice." 

••Thou  shouldst  have  come  of  Padua,  friend,  by  thy  knowl- 
edge of  the  laws !     Dost  thou  trust  in  him  thou  servest  for  the 
•ry  ?" 

There  \\as  u  movement  among  the  senators  at  the  answer  of 
(iino;  and  the  half-terrified  varlet  thought  he  perceived  frowns 
gathering  on  more  than  one  brow.  He  looked  around  in  quest 
of  him  whose  greatness  lie  liad  vaunted,  as  if  he  sought  succor. 

4t  Wilt  thou  name  thy  support  in  this  great  trial  of  force?" 
re-limed  the  hi-rald. 

u  My  master,"  uttered  the  terrified  Gino,  "St.  Januarius,  and 
[ark." 

"Thou  art  well  defended.  Should  the  two  latter  fail  thee, 
th"ii  ma\vst  surely  count  on  the  lir>t  1" 

•  lorte  has  an  illustrious  name,  and  he  is  welcome 
to  our  Venetian  sport  >,"  ol.-.-n  ed  the  doge,  slightly  bending 
his  head  toward  the  young  Calal-rian  noble,  who  stood  at  no 
-ivat  distance  in  a  gondola  of  state,  regarding  the  scene  with  a 
deej.ly-intere.-ted  eoiiiitenancc.  This  cautious  interruption  of 
the  pleasantries  of  the  official  was  acknowledged  by  a  low  reve- 
.  and  the  matter  proceeded. 

"Take  thy  station,  <;ino  Of  Calabria,  and  a  happy  fortune  be 
thine."  r-ai<l  the  latter;  then  turning  to  another,  he  asked  in 
surprise — "Why  ait  thou  here  f 

-  1  i-iiiin-  to  try  my  gondola's  swiftness." 

••  Thou  art  old  and  unequal  to  this  struggle;  husband  thy 
..iili  for  daily  toil.     An  ill-advised  ambition  hath  put  thee 
on  this  u-ele--  trial." 

irant  had  foivcd  a  common  fisherman's  gondola, 
of  no  bad  shape  and  of  sufficient  lightness,  but  which  bore  about 
it  all  the  vulgar  si^ns  of  its  daily  uses,  heneath  the  gallery  of 
tin-  Uurentaur.  lie  ]•<-.•,•! ve<  1  the  n'buke  meekly,  and  was  about 
to  turn  his  boat  aside,  though  with  a  sorrowing  and  mortified 
eye,  when  a  >ign  from  the  dogi«  arrested  his  arm. 

"  Question  of  him,  as  of  wont,"  said  the  prince. 

"Now  art  thou  named?"  continued  the  reluctant  official, 
who,  like  all  of  subordinate  condition,  had  far  more  jealousy  of 
the  dignity  of  the  sports  he  directed  than  his  superior. 

"  1  am  known  as  Antonio,  a  fisherman  of  the  Lagunes." 
tlOU  art  old!" 

"  Signore,  none  know  it  better  than  I.  It  is  sixty  summers 
-nnce  1  first  threw  net  or  line  into  the  water." 


104  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

"Nor  art  thou  clad  as  befitteth  one  who  comcth  before  the 
state  of  Venice  in  a  regatta.'' 

"  I  am  here  in  the  best  that  1  have.  Let  them  who  would  do 
the  nobles  greater  honor  come  in  better." 

"  Thy  limbs  are  uncovered — thy  bosom  bare — thy  sinews  fee- 
ble— go  to ;  thou  art  ill  advised  to  interrupt  the  pleasures  of  the 
nobles  by  this  levity." 

Again  Antonio  would  have  shrunk  from  the  ten  thousand 
eyes  that  shone  upon  him,  when  the  calm  voice  of  the  doge 
once  more  came  to  his  aid. 

"The  struggle  is  open  to  all,"  said  the  sovereio*n;  "still  I 
would  advise  the  poor  and  aged  man  to  take  counsel ;  give  him 
silver,  for  want  urges  him  to  this  hopeless  trial." 

"  Thou  hearest ;  alms  are  offered  thee ;  but  give  place  to  those 
who  are  stronger  and  more  seemly  for  the  sport." 

"  I  will  obey,  as  is  the  duty  of  one  born  and  accustomed  to 
poverty.  They  said  the  race  was  open  to  all,  and  I  crave  the 
pardon  of  the  nobles,  since  I  meant  to  do  them  no  dishonor." 

"Justice  in  the  palace,  and  justice  on  the  canals,"  hastily  ob- 
served the  prince.  "  If  he  will  continue,  it  is  right.  It  is  the 
pride  of  Saint  Mark  that  his  balances  are  held  with  an  even 
hand." 

A  murmur  of  applause  succeeded  the  specious  sentiment,  for 
the  powerful  rarely  affect  the  noble  attribute  of  justice,  however 
limited  may  be  its  exercise,  withont  their  words  finding  an  echo 
in  the  tongues  of  the  selfish. 

"Thou  hearest — his  highness,  who  is  the  voice  of  a  mighty 
state,  says  thou  mayest  remain : — though  thou  art  still  advised 
to  withdraw." 

"  I  will  then  see  what  virtue  is  left  in  this  naked  arm,"  re- 
turned Antonio,  casting  a  mournful  glance,  and  one  that  was 
not  entirely  free  from  the  latent  vanity  of  man,  at  his  meagre 
and  threadbare  attire.  "  The  limb  hath  its  scars,  but  the  infi- 
dels may  have  spared  enough  for  the  little  I  ask." 

"  In  whom  is  thy  faith  ?" 

"  Blessed  St.  Anthony,  of  the  Miraculous  Draught." 

"  Take  thy  place ! — Ha !  here  comcth  one  unwilling  to  be 
known  !  How  now  !  who  appears  with  so  false  a  face  ?" 

"  Call  me,  Mask." 

"So  neat  and  just  a  leg  and  arm  need  not  have  hid  their  fel- 
low the  countenance.  Is  it  your  highness's  pleasure  that  one 
disguised  should  be  entered  for  the  sports  ?" 

"  Doubt  it  not.    A  mask  is  sacred  in  Venice.    It  is  the  glory 


T1IK  LADIES'  READER.  105 

of  our  excellent  and  wise  laws,  that  he  who  seeketh  to  dwell 
within  the  privacy  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  to  keep  aloof  from 
curiosity  by  shadowing  his  features,  rangeth  our  streets  and 
canals,  a-  if  he  dwelt  in  the  security  of  his  own  abode.  Such 
arc  the  high  privileges  of  liberty,  and  such  it  is  to  be  a  citizen 
of  a  onerous,  a  magnanimous,  and  a  free  state!" 

A  thousand  bowed  in  approbation  of  the  sentiment,  and  a 
rumor  pa— i-d  from  mouth  to  mouth  that  a  young  noble  was 
about  to  try  his  strength  in  the  regatta,  in  compliment  to  some 
wayward  beauty. 

-  ;.-li  18  justice!"  exclaimed  the  herald,  in  a  loud  voice,  ad- 
miration apparently  o\viv,>ming  respect  in  the  ardor  of  the  mo- 
ment. "  Happy  i>  In-  tliat  is  born  in  Venice,  and  envied  are 
the  people  in  wli«>se  councils  wisdom  and  mercy  preside,  like 
lovely  and  benignant  sisters  1  On  whom  dost  thou  rely?" 

••  Mine  o\\n  arm." 

••  I  la  !     This  is  impious  !     Xoiie  so  presuming  may  enter  into 
privili-Mvd  >port>." 

Tin-  hurried  exelamation  of  the  herald  was  accompanied  by 
jucli  as  denotes  sudden  and  strong  emotion  in  a 
multitude. 

"  The  children  of  the  republic  arc  protected  by  an  even  hand," 
ob-erved  the  venerable  prince.  "It  formeth  our  just  pride,  and 
1  St.  Mark  forbid  that  aught  resembling  vain-glory  should 
be  uttered  !  but  it  is  truly  our  boast  that  we  know  no  differ- 
ence between  our  subjects  of  the  islands,  or  those  of  the  Dalma- 
lian  coast;  between  I'adua  orCandia;  Corfu  or  St.  Giorgio. 
Still  it  is  not  permitted  for  any  to  refuse  the  intervention  of  the 
saints." 

••  Name  thy  patron,  or  quit  the  place,"  continued  the  observ- 
ant herald,  an.-u. 

The  >t  ranker  paused,  as  if  lie  looked  into  his  mind,  and  then 
he  an-\\eivd — 

"San  Giovanni  of  the  wilderness/' 

"Thon  namest  one  of  ble»ed  memory!" 

"I  name  him  who  mav  have  pity  on  me  in  this  living  de- 

"The  tamper  of  tliv  -"ill   is  best  known  to  thyself,  but  this 

ml  rank  of  patririans,  yonder  brilliant  show  of  beauty, 

and  that  goodly  multitude  mav  claim  another  name.    Take  thy 

place.91 

While  the  herald  proceeded  to  take  the  names  of  three  or 
four  more  applicants,  all  gondoliers  in  private  service,  a  mur- 
5* 


106  THE   LADIES'  HEADER. 

mur  ran  through,  the  spectators,  which  proved  how  much  their 
interest  and  curiosity  had  been  awakened  by  the  replies  and 
appearance  of  the  two  last  competitors.  In  the  meantime,  the 
young  nobles  who  entertained  those  who  came  last,  began  to 
move  among  the  throngs  of  boats  with  the  intention  of  making 
such  manifestations  of  their  gallant  desires  and  personal  devo- 
tion as  suited  the  customs  and  opinions  of  the  age.  The  list 
was  now  proclaimed  to  be  full,  and  the  gondolas  were  towed 
off,  as  before,  toward  the  starting  point,  leaving  the  place  be- 
neath the  stern  of  the  Bucentaur  vacant.  The  scene  that  fol- 
lowed consequently  passed  directly  before  the  eyes  of  those 
grave  men,  who  charged  themselves  with  most  of  the  private 
interests,  as  well  as  with  the  public  concerns  of  Venice 

It  has  been  said  that  the  gondolas  which  were  to  contend  in 
the  race,  had  been  towed  toward  the  place  of  starting,  in  order 
that  the  men  might  enter  on  the  struggle  with  undiminished 
vigor.  In  this  precaution,  even  the  humble  and  half-clad  fish- 
erman had  not  been  neglected,  but  his  boat,  like  the  others, 
was  attached  to  the  larger  barges  to  which  this  duty  had  been  as- 
signed. Still,  as  he  passed  along  the  canal,  before  the  crowded 
balconies  and  groaning  vessels  which  lined  its  sides,  there  arose 
that  scornful  and  deriding  laugh,  which  seems  ever  to  grow 
more  strong  and  bold  as  misfortune  weighs  most  heavily  on  its 
subject. 

The  old  man  was  not  unconscious  of  the  remarks  of  which 
he  was  the  subject ;  and,  as  it  is  rare  indeed  that  our  sensibil- 
ities do  not  survive  our  better  fortunes,  even  he  was  so  far  con- 
scious of  a  fall  as  not  to  be  callous  to  contempt  thus  openly 
expressed.  He  looked  wistfully  on  every  side  of  him,  and 
seemed  to  search  in  every  eye  he  encountered  some  portion  of 
the  sympathy  which  his  meek  and  humble  feelings  still  craved. 
But  even  the  men  of  his  caste  and  profession  threw  jibes  upon 
his  ear;  and  though  of  all  the  competitors  perhaps  the  one 
whose  motives  most  hallowed  his  ambition,  he  was  held  to  be 
the  only  proper  subject  of  mirth.  For  the  solution  of  this  re- 
volting trait  of  human  character,  we  are  not  to  look  to  Venice 
and  her  institutions,  since  it  is  known  that  none  are  so  arrogant 
on  occasions  as  the  ridden,  and  that  the  abject  and  insolent  spir- 
its are  usually  tenants  of  the  same  bosom. 

The  movement  of  the  boats  brought  those  of  the  masked 
waterman  and  the  subject  of  these  taunts  side  by  side. 

"Thou  art  not  the  favorite  in  this  strife,"  observed  the 
former,  when  a  fresh  burst  of  jibes  were  showered  on  the  head 


TI1K    LAIUKS'  READER.  107 

of  his  unresisting  associate.  Thou  hast  not  been  sufficiently 
heedful  of  thy  attire;  for  this  is  a  town  of  luxury,  and  he  who 
would  meet  applause  mu-t  appear  on  the  canals  in  the  guise  of 
one  le-s  home  upon  l>y  fortune." 

••I  know  tin  in  !  I  know  them!"  returned  tne  fisherman; 
'•they  are  all  led  away  by  their  pride,  and  they  think  ill  of  one 
wh->  cannot  share  in  their  vanities.  But,  friend  unknown,  I 
have  brought  with  me  a  face  which,  old  though  it  be,  and  wrin- 
kled, and  worn  by  the  weather  like  the  stones  of  the  sea-shore, 
is  uncovered  to  the  eye  and  without  shame." 

"There  may  be  reasons  which  thou  knowest  not  why  I  wear 
:i  mask,  lint  if  my  face  he  hid,  the  limbs  are  hare,  and  thou 
no  lack  of  sinews  to  make  good  that  which  I 
have  undertaken.  Thou  shonldst  have  thought  better  of  the 
matter  ere  thou  pnttest  thyself  in  the  way  of  so  much  morti- 
tic.-ition.  1  Meat  will  not  cause  the  people  to  treat  thcc  more 
tenderly." 

"If  mv  -inews  are  old  and  stiffened,  Signor  Mask,  they  are 

;-e<i  to  toil.     As  to  shame,  if  it  is  a  shame  to  be  below 

tin-  iv-t   of  mankind  in  fortune,  it  will  not  now  come  for  the 

tir-t  time.     A  heavy  sorrow  hath  In-fallen  me,  and  this  race  may 

lighten  the  burden  of  grief.     I  shall  not  pretend  that  i  hear  this 

vr,  ami  all  these  scornful  speeches  as  one  listens  to  the 

evening  brer/.e  on  the  Lagnnes — for  a  man  is  still  a  man,  though 

he  lives  with  the  humblest,  ami  eats  of  the  coarsest.     But  let  it 

pass;  Sai.t'  Antonio  will  give  me  heart  to  bear  it." 

••'l'h« »u  ha-t  a  stoiu  mind,  fisherman;  and  I  would  gladly 
pray  my  patron  to  grant  thcc  a  stronger  arm,  but  that  I  have 
much  need  of  this  victory  myself.  Wilt  thou  be  content  with 

the  > ml  prize,  if,  by  any  manner  of  skill,  I  might  aid  thee  in 

t  hy  efforts  i — for,  I  suppose,  the  metal  of  the  third  is  as  little  to 
thy  ta-te  as  it  is  to  my  own." 

"  Nay,  I  count  not  on  gold  or  silver." 

"  Can  the  honor  of  such  a  struggle  awaken  the  pride  of  one 

like    tl 

The  ,.ld  man  looked  earnestly  at  his  companion;  but  he 
ihook  his  h,..-id  without  answer.  Fresh  merriment,  at  his  ex- 
l>ense,  caused  him  to  bend  his  face  toward  the  scoffers;  and  he 
perceived  they  were  just  then  pacing  a  numerous  group  of  his 
fellows  of  the  Lagunes,  who  seemed  to  feel  that  his  unjustifiable 
ambition  reflected,  in  some  degree,  on  the  honor  of  their  whole 
body. 

'•'How,  now,  old  Antonio?"  shouted  the  boldest  of  the  band 


108  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

— "  is  it  not  enough  that  tliou  hast  won  the  honors  of  the  net, 
but  thou  wouldst  have  a  golden  oar  at  thy  neck?" 

"  We  shall  yet  see  him  of  the  senate !"  cried  a  second. 

"  He  standeth  in  need  of  the  horned  bonnet  for  his  naked 
head,"  continued  a  third.  "  We  shall  see  the  brave  Admiral 
Antonio  sailing  in  the  Bucentaur  with  the  nobles  of  the 
land !" 

Their  sallies  were  succeeded  by  coarse  laughter.  Even  the 
fair  in  the  balconies  were  not  uninfluenced  by  these  constant 
jibes,  and  the  apparent  discrepancy  between  the  condition  and 
the  means  of  so  unusual  a  pretender  to  the  honors  of  the  re- 
gatta. The  purpose  of  the  old  man  wavered ;  but  he  seemed 
goaded  by  some  inward  incentive  that  still  enabled  him  to 
maintain  his  ground.  His  companion  closely  watched  the  va- 
rying expression  of  a  countenance  that  was  far  too  little  trained 
in  deception  to  conceal  the  feelings  within ;  and,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  place  of  starting,  he  again  spoke. 

"  Thou  mayest  yet  withdraw,"  he  said ;  "  why  should  one  of 
thy  years  make  the  little  time  he  has  to  stay  bitter,  by  bearing 
the  ridicule  of  his  associates  for  the  rest  of  his  life  ?" 

"St.  Anthony  did  a  greater  wonder  when  he  caused  the 
fishes  to  come  upon  the  waters  to  hear  his  preaching,  and  I  will 
not  show  a  cowardly  heart  at  a  moment  when  there  is  most 
need  of  resolution." 

The  masked  waterman  crossed  himself  devoutly ;  and  relin- 
quishing all  further  design  to  persuade  the  other  to  abandon 
the  fruitless  contest,  he  gave  all  his  thoughts  to  his  own  interest 
in  the  coming  struggle. 

The  narrowness  of  most  of  the  canals  of  Venice,  with  the  in- 
numerable angles  and  the  constant  passing,  have  given  rise  to  a 
fashion  of  construction  and  of  rowing  that  are  so  peculiar  to 
that  city  and  its  immediate  dependencies,  as  to  require  some  ex- 
planation. The  reader  has  doubtless  already  understood  that  a 
gondola  is  a  long,  narrow,  and  light  boat,  adapted  to  the  uses 
of  the  place,  and  distinct  from,  the  wherries  of  all  other  towns. 
The  distance  between  the  dwellings,  on  most  of  the  canals,  is  so 
small,  that  the  width  of  the  latter  does  not  admit  of  the  use  of 
oars  on  both  sides  at  the  same  time.  The  necessity  of  con- 
stantly turning  aside  to  give  room  for  others,  and  the  frequency 
of  the  bridges  and  the  corners,  have  suggested  the  expediency 
of  placing  the  face  of  the  waterman  in  the  direction  in  which 
the  boat  is  steering,  and  of  course  of  keeping  him  on  his  feet. 
As  every  gondola,  when  fully  equipped,  has  its  pavilion  in  the 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  109 

centre,  tin-  height  of  the  latter  renders  it  necessary  to  place  him 
who  steers  on  such  an  elevation,  as  will  enable  him  to  overlook 
it.  From  these  several  causes,  a  one-oared  boat  in  Venice  is 
propelled  l>y  a  gondolier  who  stands  on  a  little  angular  deck  in 
rii,  formed  like  the  low  roof  of  a  house;  and  the  stroke  of 
the  oar  is  given  by  a  push  instead  of  a  pull,  as  is  common  else- 
where. This  habit  of  rowing  erect,  however,  which  is  usually 
•  lour  by  a  forward,  instead  of  a  backward,  movement  of  the 
body  is  not  untVe<juent  in  «'»U  the  ports  of  the  Mediterranean, 
though  in  ID  other  is  there  a  boat  which  resembles  the  gondola 
in  all  its  properties  or  uses.  The  upright  position  of  the  gon- 
dolier iv<juiivs  that  the  pivot  on  which  the  oar  rests  should  have 
a  corresponding  elevation  :  and  there  is,  consequently,  a  species 
of  bumkiii  raised  from  the  side  of  the  boat  to  the  desired  height, 
and  which,  bring  formed  of  a  crooked  and  very  irregular  knee  of 
wood,  has  two  or  thive  row-locks,  one  above  the  other,  to  suit 
•atuiv  of  di:!'  rent  individuals,  or  to  give  a  broader  or  nar- 
ep  of  tin-  Made  as  the  movement  shall  require.  As 
tin  re  is  frequent  occasion  to  cast  the  oar  from  one  of  these  row- 
locks to  the  other,  and  not  (infrequently  to  change  its  side,  it 
in  a  very  open  bed;  and  the  instrument  is  kept  in  its 
place  by  great  dexterity  alone,  and  by  a  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  means  of  accommodating  the  force  and  the  rapidity  of  the 
effort  to  the  forward  movement  of  the  boat  and  the  resistance 
«>f  the  water.  All  these  difficulties  united  render  skill  in  a  gon- 
•  >f  the  mo.xt  delieate  branches  of  a  waterman's  art,  as 
it  i>  dear  that  muscular  strength  alone,  though  of  great  aid,  can 
avail  but  little  in  such  a  practice. 

The  M-reat  canal  of  Venice,  following  its  windings,  being  more 
than  a  Iragui-  in  length,  the  distance  in  the  present  race  was  re- 
duced nearlv  half  by  causing  the  boats  to  start  from  the  llialto. 
At  this  point,  then,  the  gondolas  were  all  assembled,  attended 
by  those  who  were  to  pla<-e  them.  As  the  whole  of  the  popu- 
,  which  before  had  been  extended  along  the  entire  course 
of  the  water,  was  now  crowded  between  the  bridge  and  the 
•liaur,  the  lon-j;  and  graceful  avenue  resembled  a  vista  of 
human  heads.  It  was  an  imposing  sight  to  look  along  that 
bright,  and  living  lane,  and  the  hearts  of  each  competitor  beat 
liMi,  as  hope,  .,r  pride,  or  apprehension  became  the  feeling  of 
;lie  moment.  * 

"Ciii,,  of  Calabria,"  cried  the  marshal  who  placed  the  gon- 
dolas, "thy  station  is  on  the  right.     Take  it,  and  St.  Januarius 
'1  thee  !" 


HO  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

The  servitor  of  Don  Carnillo  assumed  his  oar,  and  the  boat 
glided  gracefully  into  its  berth. 

"Thou  comest  next,  Enrico  of  Fusina,  Call  stoutly  on  thy 
Paduan  patron,  and  husband  thy  strength ;  for  none  of  the  main 
have  ever  yet  borne  away  a  prize  in  Venice." 

He  then  summoned  in  succession  those  whose  names  have 
not  been  mentioned,  and  placed  them,  side  by  side,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  canal. 

"  Here  is  place  for  thee,  Signore,"  continued  the  officer,  in- 
clining his  head  to  the  unknown  gondolier ;  for  he  had  imbibed 
the  general  impression  that  the  face  of  some  young  patrician 
was  concealed  beneath  the  mask  to  humor  the  fancy  of  some 
capricious  fair. — "Chance  hath  given  thee  the  extreme  left." 

"Thou  hast  forgotten  to  call  the  fisherman,"  observed  the 
masker,  as  he  drove  his  own  gondola  into  its  station. 

"Does  the  hoary  fool  persist  in  exposing  his  vanity  and  his 
rags  to  the  best  of  Venice  ?" 

"  I  can  take  place  in  the  rear,"  meekly  observed  Antonio. 
"  There  may  be  those  in  the  line  it  doth  not  become  one  like 
me  to  crowd ;  and  a  few  strokes  of  the  oar,  more  or  less,  can 
differ  but  little  in  so  long  a  strife." 

"Thou  hadst  better  push  modesty  to  discretion,  and  remain." 

"  If  it  be  your  pleasure,  Signore,  I  would  rather  see  what  St. 
Anthony  may  do  for  an  old  fisherman,  who  has  prayed  to  him, 
night  and  morning,  these  sixty  years?" 

"  It  is  thy  right ;  and  as  thou  seemest  content  with  it,  keep 
the  place  thou  hast  in  the  rear.  It  is  only  occupying  it  a  little 
earlier  than  thou  wouldst  otherwise.  Now,  recall  the  rules  of 
the  games,  hardy  gondoliers,  and  make  thy  last  appeal  to  thy 
patrons.  There  is  to  be  no  crossing  or  other  foul  expedients  ; 
naught  except  ready  oars  and  nimble  wrists.  He  who  varies 
needlessly  from  his  line  until  he  leadeth,  shall  be  recalled  by 
name ;  and  whoever  is  guilty  of  any  act  to  spoil  the  sports,  or 
otherwise  to  offend  the  patricians,  shall  be  both  checked  and 
punished.  Be  ready  for  the  signal." 

The  assistant,  who  was  in  a  strongly  manned  boat,  fell  back  a 
little,  while  runners,  similarly  equipped,  went  ahead  to  order 
the  curious  from  the  water.  These  preparations  were  scarcely 
made,  when  a  signal  floated  on  the  nearest  dome.  It  was  re- 
peated on  the  canpanile,  and  a  gun  was  fired  at  the  arsenal. 
A  deep  but  suppressed  murmur  arose  in  the  throng,  which  was 
as  quickly  succeeded  by  suspense. 

Each  gondolier  had  suffered  the  bows  of  his  boat  to  incline 


Till-]    LAWKS*   READER.  11] 

slightly  toward  the  loft  shore  of  the  canal,  as  the  jockey  is  seen 
at  tho  starting-}M»t  to  turn  his  courser  aside,  in  order  to  repress 
its  ardor,  or  divert  its  attention.  But  the  first  long  and  broad 
sweep  of  the  oar  brought  them  all  in  a  line  again, and  away  they 
glided  in  a  body. 

the  \\r>[  few  minutes  there  was  no  difference  in  speed, 
n<>r  any  Mgn  by  which  tho  instructed  might  detect  the  proba- 
ble evidence  of  defeat  or  success.  The  whole  ton  which  formed 
the  trout  line  skimmed  the  water  with  an  etjiial  velocity,  beak 
t'»  beak,  as  if  some  M-eivt  attraction  held  each  in  its  place,  while 
the  humble,  though  equally  light  bark  of  the  fisherman  steadily 
:ts  position  in  the  rear. 

*•  -V.-  *  *  *  * 

[Antonio  is  allowed  by  "  the  .Mask"  to  take  the  lead  in  the  race.] 


I.'AU.ttlKO-MtLTOX. 

Come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclep,d  Kuphrosyne. 

Haste  thee.  nymph,  and  bring  with  tlieo 
Jest,  and  youthful  jollity, 

.  and  cranks,  ami  wanton  wiles, 
and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

and  trip  it,  as  y 
On  the  light    fantastic 

a  thy  riiiht  hand  lead  with  the" 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

••nor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  mo  of  thy 
To  live,  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures 

u-  the  lark  begin  his  Might, 
And  singing  startle-  the  dull  night, 
From  i,;  iwer  in  tin- 

Till  the  dappii-d  dawn  doth  : 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 
Through  the  sweejbriar.  or  the  vine, 
Or  ti. 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scattersthe  rear  of  darkness  tliin, 


112  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn, 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  .shrill. 

Sometimes  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Rob'd  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
"While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singing  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale, 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures. 
While  the  landscape  round  it  measures; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  grey. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray  ; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest  i 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied,  - 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 
The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met, 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  checker'd  shade ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holyday, 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail ; 
Then  to  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 
How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat- 


THE  L ADI hlS'  KKADK1'.  113 

She  was  pinched,  and  pull'd,  she  said; 

And  ho,  \>y  friar's  lantern  led, 

Tolls  how  the  drr.d^iiiir  gol>let  sweat 

•n  his  cream  bowl  duly  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  tlail  hath  threslfd  the  com, 
That  ton  day  laborers  could  not  end ; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

the  lire  his  hairy  Strength; 
;  crop-full  out  of  doors  ho  flings 
Kre  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lull'd  asleep. 

Towvr'd  -us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  IKWC  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  tlic  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

ing  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydiau  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse; 
Such  as  the  meeting  KOU!  may  pierce, 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  .-  'iig  drawn  out, 

With   wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning; 
The  melting  voice  through  mu/.es  running, 
rntwi<tiu<_r  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumbers  on  a  bed 
Of  hea'p'd  Klysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  "as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-rogaiifd  Kurydico. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


TIIE  LADIES'   READER. 


PASSAGE  OE  THE  RED  SEA.-Bisnop  HEBER. 

For  many  a  coal-black  tribe  and  cany  spear, 

The  hireling  guard  of  Misraim's  throne,  were  there ; 

From  distant  Gush  they  trooped,  a  warrior  train, 

Siwah's  green  isle  and  Senaar's  marly  plain : 

On  either  wing  their  fiery  coursers  check 

The  parched  and  sinewy  sons  of  Amalek ; 

"While  close  behind,  inured  to  feast  on  blood, 

Decked  in  Behemoth's  spoils,  the  tall  Shangalla  strode. 

'Mid  blazing  helms  and  bucklers  rough  with  gold, 

Saw  ye  how  swift  the  scythed  chariots  rolled  ? 

Lo,  these  are  they  whom,  lords  of  Afric's  fates, 

Old  Thebes  hath  poured  through  all  her  hundred  gates; 

Mother  of  armies !  how  the  emeralds  glowed, 

Where,  flushed  with  power  and  vengeance,  Pharoah  rode ! 

And,  stoled  in  white,  those  brazen  wheels  before, 

Osiris'  ark  his  swarthy  wizards  bore ; 

And  still  responsive  to  the  trumpet's  cry, 

The  priestly  sistrum  murmured — Victory ! 

"Why  swell  these  shouts  that  rend  the  desert's  gloom  ? 

"Whom  come  ye  forth  to  combat  ? — warriors,  whom  ? 

These  flocks  and  herds — this  faint  and  weary  train — 

Red  from  the  scourge,  and  recent  from  the  chain  ? 

God  of  the  poor,  the  poor  and  friendless  save ! 

Giver  and  Lord  of  freedom,  help  the  slave  I 

North,  south  and  west,  the  sandy  whirlwinds  fly, 

The  circling  horns  of  Egypt's  chivalry. 

On  earth's  last  margin,  throng  the  weeping  train  ; 

Their  cloudy  guide  moves  on  : — "  And  must  we  swim  the  main  ?' 

'Mid  the  light  spray  their  snorting  camels  stood, 

Nor  bathed  a  fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood : 

He  comes — their  leader  comes ! — the  man  of  God 

O'er  the  wide  waters  lifts  his  mighty  rod, 

And  onward  treads.     The  circling  waves  retreat, 

In  hoarse  deep  murmurs,  from  his  holy  feet , 

And  the  chased  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 

The  hard  wet  sand  and  coral  hills  below. 

With  limbs  that  falter,  and  with  hearts  that  swell, 
Down,  down  they  pass — a  steep  and  slippery  dell ; 
Around  them  rise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurled, 
The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world ; 
And  flowers  that  blush  beneath  the  ocean  green, 
And  caves,  the  sea-calves'  low-roofed  haunt,  are  seen. 
Down,  safely  down  the  narrow  pass  they  tread  ; 
The  beetling  waters  storm  above  their  head ; 
While  far  behind  retires  the  sinking  day, 
And  fades  on  Edom's  hills  its  latest  ray. 

Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light, 
Or  dark  to  them,  or  cheerless  came  the  night  j 
Still  in  their  van,  along  that  dreadful  road, 
Blazed  broad  and  fierce  the  brandished  torch  of  God. 


THE   LADIKS'  READER.  115 

Its  meteor  glare  a  tenfold  lustre  gave 
On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave ; 
"While  its  blest  beams  a  suulike  heat  supply, 
"Wurm  every  cheek,  and  dance  in  every  eye- 
To  them  alone— for  Misraim's  wizard  train 
1  nvoke  for  light  the  monster  gods  in  vain; 
Clouds  heaped  on  clouds  the  struggling  sight  confine, 
And  tenfold  darkness  broods  above  their  line. 
Yet  on  they  face,  by  reckless  vengeance  led, 
And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean's  bed ; 
Till  midway  now — that  strange  and  fiery  form 
Showed  his  dread  visage  lightning  through  the  storm, 
"With  withering  splendor  blasting  all  their  might, 
Andbrake  their  chariot  wheels,  and  marred  their  coursers' flight 
"Fly,  Misraim,  lly !"  the  ravenous  floods  they  see, 
And  fiercer  than  the  floods,  the  Deity. 
"Fly,  Misraim,  fly  1"  from  Edom's  coral  strand, 
Again  the  prophet  stretched  his  dreadful  wand. 
"With  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  whters  sweep, 

.:'.!  is  \\avcs — a  dark  and  lonely  deep; 
Yet  o'er  those  lonely  waves  such  murmurs  past, 
As  mortal  wailing  swelled  the  nightly  blast. 
And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  breezes  bore 
The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia's  shore. 

Oh !  welcome  came  the  morn,  where  Israel  stood 
In  trustless .  wonder  by  the  avenging  flood ! 
Oh  I  welcome  came  the  cheerful  morn,  to  show 
The  drifted  wreck  of  Zoan's  pride  below ! 
The  mangled  limbs  of  men — the  broken  car — 
A  few  sad  relics  of  a  nation's  war; 
Alas,  how  few !     Then  soft  as  Elim's  well, 
The  precious  tears  of  new-born  freedom  fell. 
And  he,  whose  hardened  heart  alike  had  borne 
The  house  of  bondage  and  the  oppressor's  scorn, 
The  stubborn  slave,  by  hope's  new  beams  subdued, 
In  faltering  accents  sobbed  his  gratitude, 
Till  kindling  into  wanner  zeal,  around 
The  virgin  timbrel  waked  its  silver  sound ; 
And  in  tierce  joy,  no  more  by  doubt  supprest, 
The  straggling  spirit  throbbed  in  Miriam's  breast. 
She.  with  bare  arms,  and  fixing  on  the  sky 
The  dark  transparence  of  her  lucid  eye, 
Poured  on  the  winds  of  heaven  her  wild  sweet  harmony. 
"  Where  now,"  she  sang,  "the  tall  Egyptian  spear? 
On's  sunlike  shield,  and  Zoan's  chariot,  where  ? 
Above  their  ranks  the  whelming  waters  spread. 
Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed  !" 
And  every  pause  between,  as  Miriam  sang, 
From  tribe  to  tribe  the  martial  thunder  rang; 
And  loud  and  far  their  stormy  chorus  spread — 
"Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed  !" 


116  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


PARADISE  AND  THE  PERL-Moons. 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place  I 

The  glorious  Angel,  who  was  keeping 
The  gates  of  Light,  beheld  her  weeping ; 
And,  as  he  nearer  drew  and  listen'd 
To  her  sad  song,  a  teardrop  glisten'd 
Within  his  eyelids,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flow'r,  which — Brahmins  say — 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Paradise. 

"  Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line !  " 
Gently  he  said — "One  hope  is  thine. 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 
The  Peri  yet  may  be  forgiven 
Who  brings  to  this  Eternal  gate 
The  gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heaven  ! 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin — 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  Pardon'd  in." 

But  whither  shall  the  Spirit  go 

To  find  this  gift  for  Heaven? — "I  know 

The  wealth,"  she  cries,  "of  every  urn, 

In  which  unnumber'd  rubies  burn, 

Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar ; 

I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  are 

Many  a  fathom  down  in  the  sea, 

To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Araby ; 

I  know,  too,  where  the  Genii  hid 

The  jewell'd  cup  of  their  King  Jamshid, 

"With  Life's  elixir  sparkling  high — 

But  gifts  like  these  are  not  for  the  sky. 

"Where  was  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

Like  the  steps  of  Allah's  wonderful  Throne  ? 

And  the  Drops  of  Life — 0,  what  would  they  be 

In  the  boundless  Deep  of  Eternity  ?  " 

Downward  the  Peri  turns  her  gaze, 
And,  through  the  war  field's  bloody  haze 
Beholds  a  youthful  warrior  stand, 

Alone  beside  his  native  river — 
The  red  blade  broken  in  his  hand, 

And  the  last  arrow  in  his  quiver. 


THK    LADIES'   READER. 

"Live,"  said  the  Conqueror,  "live  to  share 

The  trophies  and  the  crowns  I  bear!  " 

Silent  that  youthful  warrior  stood — 

Silent  ho  pointed  to  the  flood 

All  crimson  with  his  country's  blood, 

Then  sent  his  last  remaining  dart 

For  answer,  to  th'  Invader's  heart. 

False  flew  the  shaft,  though  pointed  well ; 
The  Tyrant  liv'd,  the  Hero  fell  !— 
Yet  mark'd  the  Peri  where  he  lay, 

And,  when  the  rush  of  war  was  past, 
Swiftly  descending  on  a  ray 

Of  morning  light,  she  caught  the  last — 
Last  glorious  drop  his  heart  had  shed 
Before  its  free-born  spiriLfled! 

"  Be  this,"  she  cried,  as  she  wing'd  her  flight, 
11  My  welcome  gift  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 
Though  foul  are  the  drops  that  oft  distil 
fit1  Id  of  warfare,  blood  like  this, 

'For  Liberty  shed,  so  holy  is, 
It  would  not  stain  the  purest  rill, 

That  sparkles  among  the  Bowers  of  Bliss ! 
0,  if  there  be,  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
A  boon,  an  ottering  Heaven  holds  dear, 
'Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  in  her  cause !" 

"  Sweet,"  said  the  Angel,  as  she  gave 

The  gift  into  his  radiant  hand, 
S\vcet  is  our  welcome  of  the  Brave 

Who  die  thus  for  their  native  Land. — 
But  see — alas ! — the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not — holier  far 
Thau  ev'n  this  drop  the  boon  must  be, 
Thato;  *  of  H.-;iv'n  for  thee!" 

I  lor  first  fond  hope  of  Eden  blighted, 

No\v  among  Ai'ric's  lunar  Mountains, 
Far  to  the  South,  the  Peri  lighted ; 

And  sleek'd  her  plumage  at  the  fountains 
Of  that  Egyptian  tide — whose  birth 
Is  hidden  from  the  sons  of  earth 
Deep  in  those  solitary  woods, 

oft  the  Genii  of  the  Floods 
Dance  round  the  cradle  of  their  Nile, 
And  hail  the  new-born  Giant's  smile. 

"Poor  race  of  men!  "  said  the  pitying  Spirit, 
Dearly  ye  pay  for  your  primal  Fall — 

Some  flow'rets  of  Eden  ye  still  inherit, 

But  the  trail  of  the  Serpent  is  over  them  alll  " 


118  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

She  wept — the  air  grew  pure  and  clear 
Around  her,  as  the  bright  drops  ran ; 

For  there's  a  magic  in  each  tear, 
Such  kindly  Spirits  weep  for  man ! 

Just  then  beneath  some  orange  trees, 
Whose  fruit  and  blossoms  in  the  breeze 
Were  wantoning  together,  free, 
Like  age  at  play  with  infancy — 
Beneath  that  fresh  and  springing  bower, 

Close  by  the  Lake  she  heard  the  moan 
Of  one  who,  at  this  silent  hour, 

Had  thither  stol'n  to  die  alone. 
One  who  in  life,  where'er  he  moved, 

Drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  many; 
Yet  now,  as  though  he  ne'er  were  lov'd, 

Dies  here  unseen,  unwept  by  any ! 
None  to  watch  near  him — none  to  slake 

The  fire  that  in  his  bosom  lies, 
With  ev'n  a  sprinkle  from  that  lake, 

Which  shines  so  cool  before  his  eyes. 
No  voice,  well  known  through  many  a  day, 

To  speak  the  last,  the  parting  word, 
Which,  when  all  other  sounds  decay, 

Is  still  like  distant  music  heard ; — 
That  tender  farewell  on  the  shore 
Of  this  rude  world,  when  all  is  o'er, 
Which  cheers  the  spirit,  ere  its  bark 
Puts  off  into  the  unknown  Dark. 

But  see — who  yonder  comes  by  stealth, 

This  melancholy  bower  to  seek, 
Like  a  young  envoy  sent  by  Health, 

With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheek  ? 
'Tis  she — far  off,  through  moonlight  dim, 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride, 
She,  who  would  rather  die  with  him, 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside ! — 
Her  arms  are  round  her  lover  now, 

His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow, 

In  the  cool  lake  her  loosen'd  tresses. 
Ah !  once,  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come  when  he  should  shrink 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace, 

Those  gentle  arms,  that  were  to  him 
Holy  as  is  the  cradling  place 

Of  Eden's  infant  cherubim! 
And  now  he  yields — now  turns  away, 
Shuddering  as  if  the  venom  lay 
All  in  those  proffer'd  lips  alone — 
Those  lips  that,  then  so  fearless  grown, 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  119 

Never  until  that  instant  came 
Near  his  unask'd  or  without  shame. 

She  fails — she  sinks — as  dies  the  lamp 
In  charnel  airs,  or  cavern  damp, 
So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 
Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes. 
One  struggle — and  his  pain  is  past — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives,  one  last, 

Long  kiss,  which  she  expires  in  giving! 

"Sleep,"  said  the  Peri,  as  softly  she  stole 
The  farewell  sigh  of  that  vanishing  soul, 
As  true  as  e'er  warm'd  a  woman's  breast — 
"  Sleep  on,  in  visions  of  odor  rest, 
In  balmier  airs  than  ever  yet  stirr'd 
Th'  enchanted  pile  of  that  lonely  bird, 
Who  sings  at  the  last  his  own  death  lay, 
And  in  music  and  perfume  dies  away ! " 
Thus  saying,  from  her  lips  she  spread 

Unearthly  breathings  through  the  place, 
And  shook  her  sparkling  wreath,  and  shed 

SucU  lustre  o'er  each  paly  face, 
That  like  two  lovely  saints  they  seem'd 

Upon  the  eve  of  doomsday  taken 
From  their  dim  graves,  in  odor  sleeping; 

While  that  benevolent  Peri  beam'd 
Like  their  good  angel,  calmly  keeping 

Watch  o'er  them  till  their  souls  would  waken. 

But  morn  is  blushing  in  the  sky ; 

Again  the  Peri  soars  above, 
Bearing  to  Heav'n  that  precious  sigh 

Of  pure,  self-sacrificing  love. 
High  throbb'd  her  heart,  with  hope  elate, 

Th'  Klysiau  pulm  she  soon  shall  wjn, 
For  the  bright  spirit  at  the  gate 

Smil'd  as  she  gave  that  offering  in : 
And  she  already  hears  the  trees 

of  K'l'Mi.  wit'li  their  crystal  bells 
Ringing  in  that  ambrosial  breeze 

That  fmin  tin-  throne  of  Alia  swells; 
And  she  can  see  the  starry  bowls 

That  lie  around  that  lucid  lake, 
Upon  whoso  banks  admitted  Souls 

Their  first  sweet  draught  of  glory  take  ! 

But,  ah !  oven  Peri's  hopes  are  vain — 

!  i  the  Fates  forbade,  again 
TIT  immortal  barrier  clos'd — "Not  yet," 
The  angel  said,  as  with  regret, 
He  shut  from  her  that  glimpse  of  glory — 
"  True  was  the  maiden  and  her  story, 


120  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Written  in  light  o'er  Alla's  head, 
By  seraph  eyes  shall  long  be  read. 
But,  Peri,  see — the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not — holier  Car 
Than  ev'n  this  sigh  the  boon  must  be 
That  opes  the  gates  of  Heav'n  for  thee." 

!N"owr  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon ; 
"Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers. 

And  whitens  with  e'ernal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

But  naught  can  charm  the  luckless  Peri : 
Her  soul  is  sad — her  wings  are  weary — 
Joyless  she  sees  the  Sun  look  down 
On  that  great  Temple,  once  his  own, 
Whose  lonely  columns  stand  sublime, 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high, 
Like  dials,  which  the  wizard,  Time. 

Had  rais'd  to  count  his  ages  by  I 

Yet  haply  there  may  lie  conceal'd 

Beneath  those  Chambers  of  the  Sun, 
Some  amulet  of  gems,  anneal'd 
In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  seal'd 
With  the  great  name  of  Solomon, 
Which,  spell'd  by  her  illumin'd  eyes, 
May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  moon, 
In  earth  or  ocean,  lies  the  boon, 
The  charm,  that  can  restore  so  soon 
An  erring  Spirit  to  the  skies. 

Cheer'd  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thither; 
'  Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 

K"or  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 
In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither ; — 
When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play 
Among  the  rosy  wild  flowers  singing, 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
The  beautiful  blue  damsel  flies, 
That  flutterd  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Like  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems : — 
And,  near  the  boy,  who  tir'd  with  play 
Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay, 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount 


THE   LADIES'  READER.     / 

Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turn'd 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  daybeam  burn'd 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that — 
Suddenly  fierce — a  mixture  dire, 
Like  thunder  clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire  ; 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed; 
The  ruin'd  ones — the  shrine  profau'd — 
Oaths  broken — and  the  threshold  stain'd 
With  blood  of  guests!— tln-,->-  wrim-n  all, 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again. 

Yet  tranquil  now  that  man  of  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Soften'd  his  spirit)  look'd  and  lay. 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play: — 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 
Fell  on  the  boy's  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze, 
As  torches,  that  have  burnt  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But,  hark !  the  vesper  call  to  prayer, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets ! 
The  boy  lias  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  tho  fragrant  sod, 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead*  to  the  south, 
Lisping  th'  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  astray  babe  of  Par 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again. 
0,  'twas  a  sight — that  Heav'n — that  child — 
A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguil'd 
Ev'n  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by ! 

And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  Man 

Reclining  there — while  memory  ran 

O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 

Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 

Nor  found  one  sunny  resting  place, 

Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace. 

a 


122  THE  LADIES'  READER 

"  There  was  a  time,"  he  said  in  mild, 
Heart-humbled  tones — "  thou  blessed  child ! 
"When  young,  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 
I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee — but  now — " 
He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept ! 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 

"  There's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down  from  the  moon 

Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 

Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  power, 

So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  ev'n  in  the  hour 

That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 

And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies  ! — 

0,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin. 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall  ? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispell'd  them  all !  " 

And  now — behold  him  kneeling  there 
By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer, 
While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 
The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one, 
And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  Heaven 
The  triumph  of  a  Soul  Forgiven ! 

'Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set,  N 
While  on  theirs  knees  they  linger'd  yet, 
There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star, 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dew'd  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek. 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam — 
But  well  th'  enraptur'd  Peri  knew 
'Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  Heaven's  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near ! 

"Joy,  joy  forever!  my  task  is  done — 
The  Gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heaven  is  won !  " 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  123 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  31 AYFLOWER  — EDWARD  EVEKETT. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  as  we  repose  beneath  this  splendid  pavil- 
ion, adorned  by  the  hand  of  taste,  blooming  with  festive  gar- 
l:m«ls,  wreathed  with  the  stars  and  stripes  of  this  great  republic, 
resounding  with  strains  of  heart-stirring  music,  that,  merely  be- 
cause it  stands  upon  the  soil  of  Barnstable,  we  form  any  idea 
of  the  spot  as  it  appeared  to  Captain  Miles  Standish,  and  his 
companions,  on  the  15th  or  16th  of  November,  1620?  Oh,  no, 
sir.  Let  us  go  up  for  a  moment,  in  imagination,  to  yonder  hill, 
which  overlooks  the  village  and  the  bay,  and  suppose  ourselves 
standing  there  on  some  bleak,  ungenial  morning,  in  the  middle 
of  November  of  that  year.  The  coast  is  fringed  with  ice. 
1  >ivary  forests,  intrr.-ju-rscd  \\ith  sandy  tracts  fill  the  back- 
ground. Nothing  of  humanity  quickens  on  the  spot,  save  a 
few  roaming  savages,  who,  ill-provided  with  what  even  they 
deem  the  necessaries  of  life,  are  digging  with  their  fingers  a 
scanty  repast  out  of  the  frozen  sands.  No  friendly  lighthouses 
ha<l  as  yet  hung  up  their  cressets  upon  your  headlands;  no 
brave,  pilot-boat  was  hovering  like  a  sea-bird  on  the  tops  of  the 
S  beyond  the  Cape,  to  guide  the  shattered  bark  to  its  bar- 
no  diart^  and  soundings  made  the  secret  pathways  of  the 
Bi  plain  as  a  gravelled  road  through  a  lawn;  no  comfort- 
able dwel lin^s  along  the  line  of  the  shore,  and  where  are  now 
your  well-inhabited  streets,  spoke  a  welcome  to  the  Pilgrim; 
no  steeple  poured  the  music  of  Sabbath  morn  into  the  ear  of 
tin-  fugitive  for  conscience'  sake.  Primeval  mildness  and  na- 
desolation  brood  over  sea  and. land;  and  from  the  9th  of 
November,  when,  after  a  most  calamitous  voyage,  the  May- 
Hower  first  came  to  anchor  in  Provincetown  harbor,  to  the  end 
of  December,  the  entire  male  portion  of  the  company  was  occu- 
pied, tor  the  greater  part  of  every  day,  and  often  by  night  as 
well  as  1>\-  day,  in  exploring  the  coast  and  seeking  a  place  of 
ri-st,  amidst  perils  from  the  savages,  from  the  unknown  shore, 
and  the  elements,  which  it  makes  one's  heart  bleed  to  think  upon. 
But  this  dreary  \va-te,  which  we  thus  contemplate  in  imagi- 
nation, and  which  they  traversed  in  sad  reality,  is  a  chosen  land. 
It  is  a  theatre  upon  which  an  all-glorious  drama  is  to  be  en- 
acted. On  this  frozen  soil,— driven  from  the  ivy-clad  churches 
of  their  mother  land, — escaped,  at  last,  from  loathsome  prisons 
—  the  meek  fathers  of  a  pure  church  will  Lay  the  spiritual  base- 


124  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

ment  of  their  temple.  Here,  on  the  everlasting  rock  of  liberty, 
they  will  establish  the  foundation  of  a  free  State.  Beneath  its 
ungenial  wintry  sky,  principles  of  social  right,  institutions  of 
civil  government,  shall  germinate,  in  which,  what  seemed  the 
Utopian  dreams  of  visionary  sages,  are  to  be  more  than  real- 
ized. 

But  let  us  contemplate,  for  a  moment,  the  instruments  se- 
lected by  Providence,  for  this  political  and  moral  creation. 
However  unpromising  the  field  of  action,  the  agents  must  cor- 
respond with  the  excellence  of  the  work.  The  time  is  truly 
auspicious.  England  is  well  supplied  with  all  the  materials  of 
a  generous  enterprise.  She  is  in  the  full  affluence  of  her  wealth 
of  intellect  and  character.  The  age  of  Elizabeth  has  passed  and 
garnered  up  its  treasures.  The  age  of  the  commonwealth,  silent 
and  unsuspected,  is  ripening  toward  its  harvest  of  great  men. 
The  Burleighs  and  Cecils  have  sounded  the  depths  of  states- 
manship; the  Drakes  and  Raleighs  have  run  the  whole  round 
of  chivalry  and  adventure ;  the  Cokes  and  Bacons  are  spreading 
the  light  of  their  master-minds  through  the  entire  universe  of 
philosophy  and  law.  Out  of  a  generation  of  which  men  like 
these  are  the  guides  and  lights,  it  cannot  be  difficult  to  select 
the  leaders  of  any  lofty  undertaking ;  and,  through  their  influ- 
ence, to  secure  to  it  the  protection  of  royalty.  But,  alas,  for 
New  England  !  No,  sir,  happily  for  New  England,  Providence 
works  not  with  human  instruments.  Not  many  wise  men  after 
the  flesh,  not  many  mighty,  not  many  noble,  are  called.  The 
stars  of  human  greatness,  that  glitter  in  a  court,  are  not  destined 
to  rise  on  the  lowering  horizon  of  the  despised  colony.  The 
feeble  company  of  Pilgrims  is  not  to  be  marshalled  by  gar- 
tered statesmen,  or  mitred  prelates.  Fleets  will  not  be  des- 
patched to  convoy  the  little  band,  nor  armies  to  protect  it.  Had 
there  been  honors  to  be  won,  or  pleasures  to  be  enjoyed,  or 
plunder  to  be  grasped,  hungry  courtiers,  midsummer  friends, 
godless  adventurers  would  have  eaten  out  the  heart  of  the  en- 
terprise. Silken  Bucking-hams  and  Somersets  would  have 
blasted  it  with  their  patronage.  But,  safe  amidst  their  unen- 
vied  perils,  strong  in  their  inoffensive  weakness,  rich  in  their 
untempting  poverty,  the  patient  fugitives  are  permitted  to  pur- 
sue unmolested  the  thorny  paths  of  tribulation;  and,  landed  at 
last  on  the  unfriendly  shore,  the  hosts  of  God,  in  the  frozen 
mail  of  December,  encamp  around  the  dwellings  of  the  just : 

"  Stern  famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost.'1 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  125 

\Yhile  Bacon  is  attuning  the  sweetest  strains  of  his  honeyed 
eloquence  to  sooth  the  dull  ear  of  a  crowned  pedant,  and  his 
great  rival,  only  less  obsequious,  is  on  his  knees  to  deprecate 
the  n>yal  displeasure,  _the  future  founders  of  the  new  republic 
beyond  the  sea  arc  training  up  for  their  illustrious  mission,  in 

urity,  hardship,  and  weary  exile  in  a  foreign  land. 
And  now — for  the  fulness  of  time  is  come — let  us  go  up 
once  more,  in  imagination,  to  yonder  hill,  and  look  out  upon 
the  November  scene.  That  single  dark  speck,  just  discernible 
through  tin-  perspective  glass,  on  the  waste  of  waters,  is  the 
frit rd  vessel.  The  storm  moans  through  her  tattered  canvas,  as 

Creeps,  almost  sinking,  to  her  anchorage  in  Provincetown 
harbor;  and  there  she  lies,  with  all  her  treasures,  not  of  silver 
and  gold,  (for  of  these  she  has  none,)  but  of  courage,  of  pa- 
ti'  in-e,  of  zeal,  of  high  spiritual  daring.  So  often  as  I  dwell  in 
imagination  on  this  scene;  when  I  consider  the  condition  of 
the  Mayflower,  utterly  incapable,  as  she  was,  of  living  through 
another  gale  ;  \\  hen  I  survey  the  terrible  front  presented  by  our 
coast  to  the  navigator  who,  unacquainted  with  its  channels  and 
roadsteads,  should  approach  it  in  the  stormy  season,  I  dare  not 
call  it  a  mere  piece  of  good  fortune,  that  the  general  north  and 
south  wall  of  the  shore  of  New  England  should  be  broken  by 
this  extraordinary  projection  of  the  Cape,  running  out  into  the 
ocean  a  hundred  miles,  as  if  on  purpose  to  receive  and  encircle 
the  j.reeious  vessel.  As  I  now  see  her,  freighted  with  the  des- 
tinies of  a  continent,  barely  escaped  from  the  perils  of  the  deep, 
approaching  the  >horc  precisely  where  the  broad  sweep  of  this 
iMn>t  remarkable  headland  presents  almost  the  only  point,  at 
\\  hi  eh,  for  hundreds  of  miles,  she  could,  with  any  case,  have 
made  a  harbor,  and  this,  perhaps,  the  very  best  on  the  sea- 
hoard,  I  feel  my  spirit  raised  above  the  sphere  of  mere  natural 

ies.  I  see  the  mountains  of  New  England  rising  from 
their  rocky  thrones.  They  rush  forward  into  the  ocean,  set- 
tling down  as  they  advance;  and  there  they  range  themselves, 
as  a  mighty  bulwark  around  the  heaven-directed  vessel.  Yes, 
the  everlasting  God  himself  stretches  out  the  arm  of  his  mercy 
and  his  power,  in  substantial  manifestation,  and  gathers  the 
meek  company  of  his  worshippers  as  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 


126  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


THE  TWO 


We  talked  with  open  heart  and  tongue, 

Affectionate  and  true  ; 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 

And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

"We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat  ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke, 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"Now,  Matthew,"  said  I,  "let  us  match 

This  water's  pleasant  tune 
"With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 

That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 

"  Or  of  the  church  clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 

That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made." 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray-haired  man  of  glee. 

"No  check,  no  stay,  this  streamlet  fear?; 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  it  now  flows. 

"  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  was  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay; 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away, 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 


THE  LADIES'  READER. 

4  With  Nature  never  do  they  wago 

A  foolish  strife ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 

Is  beautiful  and  free. 

"But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws, 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 

My  life  has  been  approved ; 
And  many  love  me ;  but  by  none 

Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  I 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains. 

"  And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead, 

I'll  be  a  son  to  thee!" 
At  this  ho  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 

"Alas!  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain  side ; 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide ; 

And  through  the  wood  we  went. 

And,  ere  wo  came  to  Leonard's  rock, 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 

About  the  crazy  old  church  clock, 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERE.-TKNNvsox. 

Lady  Clara  Vero  do  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown ; 

You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 

At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
\v  the  snare,  and  I  retired: 

The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Karls, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 


128  TIIK   LADIES'   READER. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  do  Yere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms  ; 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  j'ou  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply ; 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere  , 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head, 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere; 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Yere  de  Yere. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall; 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door , 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
An:I.  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent ; 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

T'  is  only  noble  to  be  good  ; 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 


TI1K   LADIES'  READER  129 

I  know  you,  Clara  Ycre  de  Yere : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

]s  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours." 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

If  lime  be  heavy  on  }^our  hands, 
An-  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  heaven  for  a  human  heart, 
i  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


HIAWATHA'S  WOOLXG.-LONCFELLOW. 

"  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman, 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 
Useless  each  without  the  other  !" 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered. 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minneliaha. 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  laud  of  the  Dacotahs. 

••  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis ; 
'Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward. 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not  I 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers !" 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this:  "Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Yery  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
Hut  I  like  tin-  .--I arliglit  better. 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight  I" 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis  • 
"Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
8 


130  TIIE  LADIES'  READER. 

Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling: 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  lingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands !" 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha , 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people !" 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis : 
"Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 
Yery  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
"Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open  !'• 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha : 
"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  lair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  for  ever !" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 
With  his  mocasins  of  magic, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured ; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outrun  his  footsteps ; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"Pleasant  is  the  sound !"  he  murmured, 
"  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  1" 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha ; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "  Fail  not !" 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "  Swerve  not !" 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck ; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 


TIIK  LADIi:^'  1JKADER. 

And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Making  arrow-heads  of  Jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes; 
Of  tlio  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 
Ami  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskdd.-iy,  the  meadow; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  "\Vtiwa ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  bo  found  on  earth  as  they  were  ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom  ; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  footstep, 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheeks  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  asidu  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Hade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 
S:iyiii<_r,  as  lie  rose  to  meet  him, 
•Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  I" 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 


132  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha!" 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened, 
"With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Hinnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
"Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  lather  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomia, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions. 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

"  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
"That  this  peace  may  last  for  ever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  Women !" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 


THE    LADIES'  REAPER.  133 

And  made  answer  very  gravely: 

if  Minnchnha  wishes; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha!'1 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely,  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
'•  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband!" 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  njeadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Ili'urd  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"Fare  thee  well,  0  Mhmehaha  !" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying : 
"  Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us  1 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  Haunt  ing  feathers, 
Witli  hie  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
.:•  all  things  for  the  stranger!" 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  ho  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  anus  he  bore  the  maiden; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 

plume  upon  his  head-v 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  a  .iving  branches, 


134  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches, 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadow,  through  the  forest  ; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers ; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease ; 
Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you !" 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water, 
Having  such  a  noble  husband!" 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  "  0  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  0  Hiawatha !" 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  "  0  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow ; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water!" 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward ; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


T1IK    LADIES1   READER.  135 


ROBERT  BURXS.-Fixz  GKEKXE  HALLECK. 

The  memory  of  Bums — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot— she  's  canonized  his  mind ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath ; 
A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 

A  straw-wrought  eouch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given  1 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-Minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour  ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power. 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
Tin-  power  that  gave  a  child  ol  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  Muttering  pinions  then, 

ir: — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls  and  louder  lyres  j 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  iires: 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death : 
Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there; 

And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 
Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

that  language  of  the  heart, 
In  wliic-h  tlio  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  wonl.  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek; 


136  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listen'd,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  Poet's  mastery  ? 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reasons  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

"Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth ; 

"What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 

Come  with  your  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  ''Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Allo way's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran. 

Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod—- 
Lived— died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 

The  image  of  his  God. 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER.  137 


I  ill1  HAUL)  DOUBLEDICK 'S  STORY. -DICKENS. 

IN  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-nine,  a 
relative  of  mine  came  limping  down,  on  foot,  to  this  town  of 
Chatham.  L  call  it  this  town,  because  if  anybody  present 
knows  to  a  nicety  where  Rochester  ends  and  Chatham  begins, 
it  is  more  than  I  do.  lie  was  a  poor  traveller,  with  not  a 
farthing  rahia  pocket.  He  sat  by  the  fire  in  this  very  room, 
and  In1  slept  one  night  in  a  bed  that  will  be  occupied  to-night 
by  some  one  here. 

My  relative  came  down  to  Chatham,  to  enlist  in  a  cavalry 

.••MI,  it'  a  cavalry  regiment  would  have  him  ;  if  not,  to  take 

-hilling  from  any  corporal  or  sergeant  who  would 

put  a  bunch  of  ribbons  in  his  hat.      His  object  was, to  get  shot; 

l)iit,  he  thought  he  might  as  well  ride  to  death  as  be  at  the 

trouble  of  walking. 

My  relative's  Christian  name  was  Richard, but  he  was  better 
known  as  Dick,  lie  dropped  his  own  surname  on  the  road 
down,  ami  took  up  that  of  Doubledick.  lie  was  passed  as 
luehard  Doubledick;  age,  twenty-two;  height,  five  feet  ten; 
native  place,  Kxmouth ;  which  he  had  never  been  near  in  his 
life.  There  was  no  cavalry  in  Chatham  when  he  limped  over 
the  bridge  here  with  half  a  shoe  to  his  dusty  foot,  so  he  enlisted 
into  a  reLrinient  of  the  line,  and  was  glad  to  get  drunk  and  for- 
U'et  all  about  it. 

You  are  to  know  that  this  relative  of  mine  had  gone  wrong 
and  run  wild.  His  heart  was  in  the  right  place,  but  it  was 
<ealed  up.  He  had  been  betrothed  to  a  good  and  beautiful 
irirl  whom  be  had  loved  better  than  she — or  perhaps  even  he — 
believed  ;  but,  in  an  evil  hour,  he  had  given  her  cause  to  say  to 
him,  solemnly,  "  Richard,  I  will  never  marry  any  other  man.  I 
will  live  single  for  your  sake,  but  Mary  Marshall's  lips" — her 
name  v.a-  Mary  Mar>hall — " never  address  another  word  to  you 
•  MI  earth.  (Jo,  Richard  !  Heaven  forgive  you  !"  This  finished 
him.  This  brought  him  down  to  Chatham.  This  made  him 
Private  Richard  Doublcdick,  a  deep  determination  to  be  shot, 

There  was  not  a  more  dissipated  and  reckless  soldier  in 
Chatham  barracks,  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  ninety-nine,  than  Trivate  Richard  Doubledick.  He  asso- 
eiated  with  the  div_'s  of  every  regiment,  lie  was  as  seldom  sober 
as  he  could  be,  and  wa-  "onstantly  under  punishment.  "It  bo- 


138  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

came  clear  to  the  whole  barracks,  that  Private  Richard  Double- 
dick  would  very  soon  be  flogged. 

Now,  the  Captain  of  Richard  Doubledick's  company  was  a 
young  gentleman  not  above  five  years  his  senior,  whose  eyes 
had  an  expression  in  them  which  affected  Private  Richard 
Doubledick  in  a  very  remarkable  way.  They  were  bright, 
handsome,  dark  eyes — what  are  called  laughing  eyes,  generally, 
and,  when  serious,  rather  steady  than  severe — but,  they  were 
the  only  eyes  now  left  in  his  narrowed  world  that  Private 
Richard  Doubledick  could  not  stand.  Unabashed  by  evil  re- 
port and  punishment,  defiant  of  everything  else  and  everybody 
else,  he  had  but  to  know  that  those  eyes  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment,  and  he  felt  ashamed.  He  could  not  so  much  as  salute 
Captain  Taunton  in  the  street,  like  any  other  officer.  He  was 
reproached  and  confused — troubled  by  the  mere  possibility  of 
the  captain's  looking  at  him.  In  his  worst  moments  he  would 
rather  turn  back  and  go  any  distance  out  of  his  way,  than  en- 
counter those  two  handsome,  dark,  bright  eyes. 

One  day,  when  Private  Richard  Doubledick  came  out  of  the 
Black  Hole,  where  he  had  been  passing  the  last  eight-and-forty 
hours,  and  in  which  retreat  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time,  he 
was  ordered  to  betake  himself  to  Captain  Tannton's  quarters. 
In  the  stale  and  squalid  state  of  a  man  just  out  of  the  black  hole, 
he  had  less  fancy  than  ever  for  being  seen  by  the  captain ;  but, 
he  was  not  so  mad  yet  as  to  disobey  orders,  and  consequently 
went  up  to  the  terrace  overlooking  the  parade-ground,  where 
the  officers'  quarters  were ;  twisting  and  breaking  in  his  hands, 
as  he  went  along,  a  bit  of  the  straw  that  had  formed  the  deco- 
rative furniture  of  the  black  hole. 

"  Come  in !"  cried  the  Captain,  when  he  knocked  with  his 
knuckles  at  the  door.  Private  Richard  Doubledick  pulled  off 
Ms  cap,  took  a  stride  forward,  and  felt  very  conscious  that  he 
stood  in  the  light  of  the  dark  bright  eyes. 

There  was  a  silent  pause.  Private  Richard  Doubledick  had 
put  the  straw  in  his  mouth,  and  was  gradually  doubling  it  up 
into  his  windpipe  and  choking  himself. 

"Doubledick,"  said  the  Captain,  "Do  you  know  where  you 
are  going  to  2" 
f     "  To  ruin,  sir  ?"  faltered  Doubledick. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Captain.     "And  very  fast." 

Private  Richard  Doubledick  turned  the  straw  of  the  black 
hole  in  his  mouth,  and  made  a  miserable  salute  of  acquiescence. 

"Doubledick,"  said  the  Captain,  "since  I  entered  his  Ma- 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  139 

vice,  a  boy  of  seventeen,  I  have  been  pained  to  see 
many  men  of  promise  going  that  road;  but,  I  have  never  been 
e  a  man  determined  to  make  the  shameful  jour- 
ney, as  I  have  been,  ever  since  you  joined  the  regiment,  to  see 

Private  Richard  Doubledick  began  to  find  a  film  stealing 
over  the  floor  at  which  he  looked ;  also  to  find  the  legs  of  the 
Captain's  breakfast-table  turning  crooked,  as  if  he  saw  them 
through  water. 

"I  am  only  a  common  soldier,  sir,"  said  he.  "It  signifies 
very  little  what  such  a  poor  brute  comes  to." 

••  You  arc  ,-:  man,"  r.-nimcd  the  Captain  with  grave  indigna- 
tion, "of  education  and  superior  advantages;  and  if  you  say 
that,  meaning  what  yon  say,  you  have  sunk  lower  than  I  had 
believed.  How  low  that  must  be,  I  leave  you  to  consider; 
.hat  I  know  of  your  disgrace,  and  seeing  what  I 
see." 

-  I  hop,-  to  get  shot  soon,  sir,"  said  Private  Richard  Double- 
dick; "and  then  the  regiment,  and  the  world  together,  will  be 
rid  of  me." 

The  legs  of  the  table  were  becoming  very  crooked.     Double- 
dick, looking  up  to  steady  his  vision,  met  the  eyes  that  had  so 
g  an  influence  over  him.     He  put  his  hand  before  his  own 
and  the  breast  of  his  disgrace-jacket  swelled  as  if  it  would 
liy  asundt  r. 

••  I  would  rather,"  said  the  young  Captain,  "see  this  in  you, 
I  )oul»ledick,  than  I  would  see  five  thousand  guineas  counted 
out  upon  this  table  for  a  gift  to  my  good  mother.  Have  you  a 
mot! 

ii  thankful  to  say  she  is  dead,  sir." 

"  It'  your  prai-c,"  returned  the  Captain,  "were  sounded  from 
mouth  to  mouth  through  the  whole  regiment,  through  the  whole 
army,  through  the  whole  country,  you  would  wish  she  had 
lived,  to  -ay  with  pride  and  joy,  'He  is  my  son!'" 

"  Spare  me,  >ir;"  said  Doubledick.  "  Srhe  would  never  have 
he;ird  any  good  of  me.  She  would  never  have  had 'any  pride 
and  joy  in  owning  herself  my  mother.  Love  and  compassion 
she  might  have  had,  and  would  have  always  had,  I  know;  but 

not Spare  me,  sir!     I  am  a  broken  wretch,  quite  at  your 

mercy  '."     And  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  stretched  out 
liis  imploring  hand. 

"Mv   iVi-'lld "   lie^ali  the  f'aptail). 

ir!"  M,l)ln-d  Private  Richard  Doubledick. 


140  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

"You  are  at  the  crisis  of  your  fate.  Hold  your  course  un- 
changed, a  little  longer,  and  you  know  what  must  happen.  / 
know  even  better  than  you  can  imagine,  that  after  that  has  hap- 
pened, you  are  lost.  No  man  who  could  shed  those  tears  could 
bear  those  marks." 

"  I  fully  believe  it,  sir,"  in  a  low,  shivering  voice,  said  Private 
Richard  Doubledick. 

"  But  a  man  in  any  station  can  do  his  duty,"  said  the  young 
Captain,  "  and,  in  doing  it,  can  earn  his  own  respect,  even  if 
his  case  should  be  so  very  unfortunate  and  so  very  rare,  that  he 
can  earn  no  other  man's.  A  common  soldier,  poor  brute  though 
you  called  him  just  now,  has  this  advantage  in  the  stormy  times 
we  live  in,  that  he  always  does  his  duty  before  a  host  of  sym- 
pathising witnesses.  Do  you  doubt  that  he  may  so  do  it  as  to 
be  extolled  through  a  whole  regiment,  through  a  whole  army, 
through  a  whole  country  ?  Turn  while  you  may  yet  retrieve 
the  past,  and  try." 

"  I  will !  I  ask  for  only  one  witness,  sir,"  cried  Richard,  with 
a  bursting  heart. 

"I  understand  you.  I  will  be  a  watchful  and  a  faithful 
one." 

I  have  heard  from  Private  Richard  Doubledick's  own  lips, 
that  he  dropped  down  upon  his  knee,  kissed  that  officer's  hand, 
arose,  and  went  out  of  the  light  of  the  dark  bright  eyes,  an 
altered  man. 

In  that  year,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-nine, 
the  French  were  in  Egypt,  in  Italy,  in  Germany,  where  not  ? 
Napoleon  Buonaparte  had  likewise  begun  to  stir  against  us  in 
India,  and  most  men  could  read  the  signs  of  the  great  troubles 
that  were  coming  on.  In  the  very  next  year,  when  w  formed 
an  alliance  with  Austria  against  him,  Captain  Tampon's  regi- 
ment was  on  service  in  India.  And  there  was  not  a  finer  non- 
commissioned officer  in  it — no,  nor  in  the  whole  line — than 
Corporal  Richard  Doubledick. 

In  eighteen  hundred  and  one,  the  Indian  army  were  on  the 
coast  of  Egypt.  Next  year  was  the  year  of  the  proclamation 
of  the  short  peace,  and  they  were  recalled.  It  had  then  be- 
come well  known  to  thousands  of  men,  that  wherever  Captain 
Taunton,  with  the  dark  bright  eyes,  led,  there,  close  to  him, 
ever  at  his  side,  firm  as  a  rock,  true  as  the  sun,  and  brave  as 
Mars,  would  be  certain  to  be  found,  while  life  beat  in  their 
hearts,  that  famous  soldier,  Sergeant  Richard  Doubledick. 

Eio-liteen  hundred  and  five,  besides  being  the  great  year  of 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  141 

Trafalgar,  was  a  year  of  hard  fighting  in  India.  That  year  saw 
such  wonders  done  by  a  Sergeant-Major,  who  cut  his  way, 
single-handed,  through  a  solid  mass  of  men,  recovered  the  col- 
ors of  his  regiment  which  had  been  seized  from  the  hand  of  a 
poor  boy  shot  through  the  heart,  and  rescued  his  wounded  cap- 
tain, who  was  down,  and  in  a  very  jungle  of  horses'  hoofs  and 
sabres — saw  such  wonders  done,  I  say,  by  this  brave  Sergeant- 
Major,  that  he  was  specially  made  the  bearer  of  the  colors  he 
had  won;  and  Ensign  Richard  Doubleclick  had  risen  from  the 
ranks. 

Sorely  cut  up  in  every  battle,  but  always  reinforced  by  the 
bravest  of  nu-n — for,  the  tame  of  following  the  old  colors,  shot 
through  and  through,  which  Ensign  Richard  Doubledick  had 
:.  inspired  all  breasts — this  regiment  fought  its  way  through 
'enin.Milar  war,  up  to  the  investment  of  Badajos  in  eighteen 
hundred  and  twelve.  Again  and  again  it  had  been  cheered 
through  the  British  ranks  until  the  tears  had  sprung  into  men's 
at  the  mere  hearing  of  the  mighty  British  voice  so  exult- 
ant in  their  valor;  and  there  was  not  a  drummer-boy  but  knew 
the  legend,  that  wherever  the  two*  friends,  Major  Taunton,  with 
the  dark  bright  eyes,  and  Ensign  Richard  Doubledick,  who  was 
devoted  to  him,  were  seen  to  go,  there  the  boldest  spirits  in  the 
English  army  became  wild  to  follow. 

One  day,  at  Badajos — not  in  the  great  storming,  but  in  re- 
pelling a  hot  sally  of  the  boieged  upon  our  men  at  work  in  the 
w  ho  had  given  way,  the  two  officers  found  themselves 
hurrying  forward,  face  to  face1,  against  a  party  of  French  infantry 
who  made  a  stand.  There  was  an  officer  at  their  head,  encour- 
:  his  men — a  courageous,  handsome,  gallant  officer  of  five- 
iiirty — whom  I  >oul>ledi<:k  saw  hurriedly,  almost  moment- 
arily, but  saw  well.  He  particularly  noticed  this  officer  waving 
.  <>rd,  and  rallying  his  men  with  an  eager  and  excited  cry, 
when  they  tired  in  obedience  to  his  gesture,  and  Major  Taunton 
dropped. 

It  was  over  in  ten  minutes  more,  and  Doubledick  returned  to 
the  spot  where  he  had  laid  the  best  friend  man  ever  had,  on  a 
coat  spread  upon  the  wet  clay.  Major  Taunton's  uniform  was 
opened  at  the  l>rea>t,  and  on  'his  shirt  were  three  little  spots  of 
blood. 

"Dear  Doubledick,1'  said  he,  "I  am  dying." 

••  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  no  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  kneeling 
down  beside  him,  and  passing  his  arm  round  his  neck  to  raise 
his  head.  "  Taunton  !  My  preserver,  my'  guardian  angel,  my 


142  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

witness !  Dearest,  truest,  kindest  of  human  beings !  Taunton ! 
For  God's  sake !" 

The  bright  dark  eyes — so  very,  very  dark  now,  in  the  pale 
face — smiled  upon  him ;  and  the  hand  he  had  kissed  thirteen 
years  ago,  laid  itself  fondly  on  his  breast. 

"  Write  to  my  mother.  You  will  see  home  again.  Tell  her 
how  we  became  friends.  It  will  comfort  her,  as  it  comforts 
me." 

He  spoke  no  more,  but  faintly  signed  for  a  moment  towards 
his  hair  as  it  fluttered  in  the  wind.  The  Ensign  understood 
him.  He  smiled  again  when  he  saw  that,  and  gently  turning 
his  face  over  on  the  supporting  arm,  as  if  for  rest,  died,  with  his 
hand  upon  the  breast  in  which  he  had  revived  a  soul. 

No  dry  eye  looked  on  Ensign  Richard  Doubledick,  that  mel- 
ancholy day.  He  buried  his  friend  on  the  field,  and  became  a 
lone,  bereaved  man.  Beyond  his  duty  he  appeared  to  have 
but  two  remaining  cares  in  life;  one,  to  preserve  the  little 
packet  of  hair  he  was  to  give  to  Taunton's  mother ;  the  other, 
to  encounter  that  French  officer  who  had  rallied  the  men  under 
whose  fire  Taunton  fell.  A  new  legend  now  began  to  circulate 
among  our  troops ;  and  it  was,  that  when  he  and  the  French 
officer  came  face  to  face  once  more,  there  would  be  weeping  in 
France. 

The  war  went  on — and  through  it  went  the  exact  picture  of 
the  French  officer  on  the  one  side,  and  the  bodily  reality  upon 
the  other — until  the  Battle  of  Toulouse  was  fought.  In  the 
returns  sent  home,  appeared  these  words :  "  Severely  wounded, 
but  not  dangerously,  Lieutenant  Richard  Doubledick." 

At  Midsummer  time,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  four- 
teen, Lieutenant  Richard  Doubleclick,  now  a  browned  soldier, 
seven-and-thirty  years  of  age,  came  home  to  England,  invalided. 
He  brought  the  hair  with  him,  near  his  heart.  Many  a  French 
officer  had  he  seen,  since  that  day ;  many  a  dreadful  night,  in 
searching  with  men  and  lanterns  for  his  wounded,  had  he  re- 
lieved French  officers  lying  disabled ;  but,  the  mental  picture 
and  the  reality  had  never  come  together. 

Though  he  was  weak  and  suffered  pain,  he  lost  not  an  hour 
m  getting  down  to  Frome,  in  Somersetshire,  where  Taunton's 
mother  lived.  In  the  sweet,  compassionate  words  that  naturally 
present  themselves  to  the  mind  to-night,  "  He  was  the  only  sou 
of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a  widow." 

It  was  a  Sunday  evening,  and  the  lady  sat  at  her  quiet  gar- 
den-window, reading  the  Bible ;  reading  to  herself,  in  a  tremb- 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  143 

ling  voice,  that  very  passage  in  it  as  I  have  heard  him  tell.  He 
heard  the  words  "  Young  man,  1  say  unto  thce,  arise!" 

I  If  had  to  jus*  the  \vimlo\v;  ami  the  bright  dark  eyes  of 
hi-  del.a-ed  tii-  'd  to  look  at  him.  Her  heart  told  her 

who  lie  was;  she  camu  to  the  door,  quickly,  and  fell  upon  his 
neck. 

••  He  saved  me  from  ruin,  made  me  a  human  creature,  won 
me  from  infamy  and  shame.  O  God,  for  ever  bless  him !  As 
II.-  will,  H.'  will:" 

M  Hr  will  !''  the  lady  answered.  "I  know  he  is  in  Heaven!" 
Tin -n  she  pitcously  cried,  "But,  0,  my  darling  boy,  my  darling 
boy !" 

Never,  from  tin-  hour  when  Private  Richard  Doubleclick  en- 
listed at  Chatham,  had  the  Private,  Corporal,  Sergeant,  Ser- 
geant-Major,  Knsign,  or  Lieutenant,  breathed  his  right  name,  or 
the  name  <>f  Mary  Marshall,  or  a  word  of  the  story  of  his  life, 
into  any  ear,  except  his  reclaimer's.  That  previous  scene  in  his 
nee  was  closed.  Jle  had  firmly  resolved  that  his  expiation 
should  l>e,  t<>  live  unknown  ;  to  disturb  no  more  the  peace  that 
had  l«'iiM-  "Town  over  his  old  offences;  to  let  it  be  revealed  when 
he  wa<  dead,  that  he  had  striven  and  suffered,  and  had  never 
•ten  ;  and  then,  if  they  could  forgive  him  and  believe  him 
— well,  it  would  be  time  enough — time  enough! 

JJut,  that  night,  remembering  the  words  he  had  cherished  for 
two  years,  "  Tell  her  how  we  became  friends.  It  Avill  comfort 
•is  it  comforts  me,"  he  related  everything.  It  gradually 
d  to  him,  a<  if  in  his  maturity  he  had  recovered  a  mother; 
emed  to  her,  as  if  in  her  bereavement  she  had 
found  a  son.  1  Miring  his  stay  in  England,  the  quiet  garden  in- 
to which  he  had  slowly  ayd  painfully  crept,  a  stranger,  became 
the  boundary  <>f  his  home;  when  he  was  able  to  rejoin  his  regi- 
ment in  the  spring,  he  left  the  garden,  thinking,  was  this,  in- 
deed, the  first  time  he  had  ever  turned  his  face  toward  the  old 
colors,  with  a  woman's  blessing ! 

lie  followed  them — so  ragged,  so  scarred  and  pierced  now, 
that  they  would  scarcely  hold  together.  He  stood  beside  them, 
in  an  awful  stillness  of  many  men,  shadowy  through  the  mist 
and  drizxle  <»t'  a  wet.  June  forenoon,  on  the  field  of  Waterloo. 
And  down  to  that  hour,  the  picture  in  his  mind  of  the  French 
officer  had  never  been  compared  with  the  reality. 

The  famous  regiment  was  in  action  early  in  the  battle,  and 
received  its  first  check,  in  many  an  eventful  year,  when  he  was 
seen  to  fall.  But,  it  swept  on  to  avenge  him,  and  left  behind 


144  THE  LADIES'  READER 

no  such,  creature  in  the  world  of  consciousness,  as  Lieutenant 
Richard  Doubledick. 

Through  pits  of  mire,  and  pools  of  rain;  along  deep  ditches, 
once  roads,  that  were  pounded  and  ploughed  to  pieces  by  artil- 
lery, heavy  wagons,  tramp  of  men  and  horses,  and  the  struggle 
of  every  wheeled  thing  that  could  carry  wounded  soldiers; 
jolted  among  the  dying  and  the  dead,  so  disfigured  by  blood 
and  mud  as  to  be  hardly  recognizable  for  humanity ;  undis- 
turbed by  the  moaning  of  men  and  -the  shrieking  of  horses, 
which,  newly  taken  from  the  peaceful  pursuits  of  life,  could  not 
endure  the  sight  of  the  stragglers  lying  by  the  way-side,  never 
to  resume  their  toilsome  journey ;  dead,  as  to  any  sentient  life 
that  was  in  it,  and  yet  alive ;  the  form  that  had  been  Lieutenant 
Richard  Doubledick,  with  whose  praises  England  rang,  was  con- 
veyed to  Brussels.  There,  it  was  tenderly  laid  dowa  in  hospi- 
tal ;  and  there  it  lay,  week  after  week,  through  the  long  bright 
summer  days,  until  the  harvest,  spared  by  war,  had  ripened  and 
was  gathered  in. 

Over  and  over  again,  the  sun  rose  and  set  upon  the  crowded 
city ;  over  and  over  again,  the  moonlight  nights  were  quiet  on 
the  plains  of  Waterloo ;  and  all  that  time  was  a  blank  to  what 
had  been  Lieutenant  Richard  Doubledick.  Rejoicing  troops 
marched  into  Brussels,  and  marched  out ;  brothers  and  fathers, 
sisters,  mothers,  and  wives,  came  thronging  thither,  drew  their 
lots  of  joy  or  agony,  and  departed;  so  many  times  a  day,  the 
bells  rang ;  so  many  times,  the  shadows  of  the  great  buildings 
changed;  so  many  lights  sprang  up  at  dusk;  so  many  feet 
passed  here  and  there  upon  the  pavements ;  so  many  hours  of 
sleep  and  cooler  air  of  night  succeeded ;  indifferent  to  all,  a 
marble  face  lay  on  a  bed,  like  the  face,  of  a  recumbent  statue  on 
the  tomb  of  Lieutenant  Richard  Doubledick. 

Slowly  laboring,  at  last,  through  a  long  heavy  dream  of  -con- 
fused time  and  place,  presenting  faint  glimpses  of  army  surgeons 
whom  he  knew,  and  of  faces  that  had  been  familiar  to  his  youth 
— dearest  and  kindest  among  them,  Mary  Marshall's,  with  a 
solicitude  upon  it  more  like  reality  than  anything  he  could 
discern — Lieutenant  Richard  Doubledick  came  back  to  life.  To 
the  beautiful  life  of  a  calm  autumn  evening  sunset.  To  the 
peaceful  life  of  a  fresh  quiet  room  with  a  large  window  standing 
open;  a  balcony,  beyond,  in  which  were  moving  leaves  and 
sweet-smelling  flowers ;  beyond  again,  the  clear  sky,  with  the 
sun  full  in  his  sight,  pouring  its  golden  radiance  on  his  bed. 

It  was  so  tranquil  and  so  lovely,  that  he  thought  he  had 


THE  IAD1ES'  HEADER.  145 

passed  into  another  world.  And  he  said  in  a  faint  voice, 
"Taunton,  are  you  near  me?" 

A  face  bent  over  him.     Not  his;  his  mother's. 

"I  came  to  nurse  you.  We  have  nursed  you  many  weeks. 
You  were  moved  here,  Jong  ago.  Do  you  remember  nothing ?" 

"  Nothing." 

Tin.-  lady  kissed  his  cheek,  and  held  his  hand,  soothing  him. 

*•  Where  is  the  regiment?  What  has  happened?  Let  me 
call  you  mother.  What  has  happened,  mother?" 

••  A  great  victory,  dear.  The  war  is  over,  and  the  regiment 
was  the  bravest  in  the  field." 

His  eyes  kindled,  his  lips  trembled,  he  sobbed,  and  the  tears 
ran  down  his  face.  He  was  very  weak;  too  weak  to  move  his 
bond-. 

••  \V;is  it  dark  just  now  C  he  asked  presently. 

"It  was  only  dark  to  me  ?  Something  passed  away,  like  a 
Mack  shadow.  Hut  a-  it  went,  and  the  sun — O  the  blessed 
HID,  how  beautiful  it  is! — touched  my  face.  I  thought  I  saw  a 
liu'ht  white  cloud  pa<s  out  at  the  door.  Was  there  nothing 
that  went  out?" 

Sin-  -hook  her  head,  and,  in  a  little  while,  he  fell  asleep;  she 
utill  holding  his  hand,  and  soothing  him. 

l-'roin  that,  time,  he  recovered.  Slowly,  for  he  had  been  des- 
perately wounded  in  the  head,  and  had  been  shot  in  the  body; 
but,  making  some  little  advance  every  day.  When  he  had 
gained  Miiiicieiit  strength  to  converse  as  he  lay  in  bed,  he  soon 
i  to  ivmark  thai  Mrs.  Taunton  always  brought  him  back 
to  his  own  history.  Then,  he  recalled  his  preserver's  dying 
\\ords.  and  thought,  "it  comforts  her." 

( >ne  day,  he  aw.«kf  out  of  a  sleep,  refreshed,  and  asked  her 
id  to  him.  But,  the  curtain  of  the  bed,  softening  the 
liirht,  which  she  always  drew  back  when  he  awoke,  that  she 
might  see  him  from  her  table  at  the  bed-side,  where  she  sat  at 
work,  was  held  undrawn;  and  a  woman's  voice  spoke,  which 
wa-  not  hers. 

"  Can  you  hear  to  see  a  stranger?"  it  said,  softly.  "  Will  you 
like  to  see  a  -t  ranger?" 

::mU"T:"  he  repeated.     The  voice  awoke  old  memories, 
before  the  days  of  Private  Richard  Doubledick. 

"  A  stranger,  now,  but  not  a  stranger  once,"  it  said  in  tones 
that  thrilled  him.  -Richard,  dear  "Richard,  lost  through  so 

many  years,  my  name " 

10 


14G  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

He  cried  out  her  name,  "  Mary !"  and  she  held  him  in  her 
arms,  and  his  head  lay  on  her  bosom. 

"  I  am  not  breaking  a  rash  vow,  Richard.  These  are  not 
Mary  Marshall's  lips  that  speak.  I  have  another  name." 

She  was  married. 

"I  have  another  name,  Richard.     Did  you  ever  hear  it?" 

"Never!" 

He  looked  into  her  face,  so  pensively  beautiful,  and  wondered 
at  the  smile  upon  it  through  her  tears. 

"  Think  again,  Richard.  Are  you  sure  you  never  heard  my 
altered  name  ?" 

"Never!" 

"  Don't  move  your  head  to  look  at  me,  dear  Richard.  Let  it 
lie  here,  while  I  tell  my  story.  I  loved  a  generous,  noble  man ; 
loved  him  with  my  whole  heart ;  loved  him  for  years  and  years  ; 
loved  him  faithfully,  devotedly;  loved  him  with  no  hope  of  re- 
turn; loved  him,  knowing  nothing  of  his  highest  qualities — 
not  even  knowing  that  he  was  alive.  He  was  a  brave  soldier. 
He  was  honored  and  beloved  by  thousands  of  thousands,  when 
the  mother  of  his  dear  friend  found  me,  and  showed  me  that,  in 
all  his  triumphs,  he  had  never  forgotten  me.  He  was  wounded 
in  a  great  battle.  He  was  brought,  dying,  here,  into  Brussels, 
I  came  to  watch  and  tend  him,  as  I  would  have  joyfully  gone, 
with  such  a  purpose,  to  the  dreariest  ends  of  the  earth.  When 
he  knew  no  one  else,  he  knew  me.  When  he  suffered  most, 
he  bore  his  sufferings,  barely  murmuring,  content  to  rest  his 
head  where  yours  rests  now.  When  he  lay  at  the  point  of 
death,  he  married  me,  that  he  might  call  me  Wife  before  he 
died.  And  the  name,  my  dear  love,  that  I  took  on  that  for- 
gotten night " 

"  I  know  it  now  !"  he  sobbed.  "  The  shadowy  remembrance 
strengthens.  It  is  come  back.  I  thank  heaven  that  my  mind 
is  quite  restored !  My  Mary,  kiss  me ;  lull  this  weary  head  to 
rest,  or  I  shall  die  of  gratitude.  His  parting  words  are  fulfilled. 
I  see  home  again !" 

Well !      They  were  happy.      It  was  a  long  recovery,  but 
they  were  happy  through  it  all.     The  snow  had  melted  on  tho  • 
ground,  and  the  birds  were  singing  in  the  leafless  thickets  of 
the  early  spring,  when  these  three  were  first  able  to  ride  out  ' 
together,  and  when  people  flocked  about  the  open  carnage  to 
cheer  and  congratulate  Captain  Richard  Doubledick. 

But,  even  then,  it  became  necessary  for  the  Captain,  instead 
of  returning  to  England,  to  complete  his  recovery  in  the  climate 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  ^ 

of  Southern  France.  They  found  a  spot  upon  the  Rhone,  within 
a  ride  of  the  old  town  of  Avignon,  and  within  view  of  its  broken 
bridge,  which  was  all  they  could  desire;  they  lived  there,  to- 
gether, six  months;  then  returned  to  England.  Mrs.  Taunton 
growing  old  after  three  years — though  not  so  old  as  that  her 
bright  dark  eyes  were  dimmed — and  remembering  that  her 
strengtli  had  been  benefitted  by  the  change,  resolved  to  go 
back  for  a  year  to  those  parts.  So  she  went  with  a  faithful 
servant,  who  had  often  carried  her  son  in  his  arms ;  and  she 
was  to  be  rejoined  and  escorted  home,  at  the  year's  end,  by 
Captain  Richard  Doubledick. 

•  wrote  regularly  to  her  children  (as  she  called  them  now), 
and  they  to  her.  She  went  to  the  neighborhood  of  Aix ;  and 
there,  in  their  own  chateau  near  the  fanner's  house  she  rented, 
she  grew  into  intimacy  with  a  family  belonging  to  that  part  of 
France.  The  intimacy  began,  in  her  often  meeting  among  the 
vim-yards  a  pretty  child;  a  girl  with  a  most  compassionate 
heart,  win)  \\.-is  never  tired  of  listening  to  the  solitary  English 
lady's  stories  of  her  poor  son  and  the  cruel  wars.  The  family 

as  gentle  as  the  child,  and  at  length  she  came  to  know 
them  so  well,  that  she  accepted  their  invitation  to  pass  the  last 
m<mth  of  her  residence  abroad,  under  their  roof.  All  this  in- 
t< -11  licence  she  wrote  home,  piecemeal  as  it  came  about,  from 
time  t<>  time;  aiul,  at  last,  enclosed  a  polite  note  from  the  head 
of  the  chateau,  soliciting,  on  the  occasion  of  his  approaching 
mi— ion  to  that  neighborhood,  the  honor  of  the  company  of  cet 
hornnie  si  ju  >tement  celebre  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Richard 
Doubledick. 

Captain  Doubledick ;  now  a  hardy  handsome  man  in  the  full 

of  lite,  broader  across  the  chest  and  shoulders  than  he  had 
ever  been  before;  dispatched  a  courteous  reply,  and  followed  it 
in  person.  Travelling  through  all  that  extent  of  country  after 
three  yc;u<  ••!'  peace  he  blessed  the  better  days  on  which  the 
world  had  fallen.  The  corn  was  golden,  not  drenched  in  unnat- 
ural red;  was  bound  in  sheaves  for  food,  not  trodden  underfoot 
by  men  in  mortal  fight.  The  smoke  rose  up  from  peaceful 
h'-arths,  not  blaxing  ruins.  The  carts  were  laden  with  the  fail- 
fruits  of  the  earth,  not  with  wounds  and  death.  To  him  who 
•  u  the  terrible  reverse,  these  things  were  beauti- 
ful indeed,  and  they  brought  him  in  a  softened  spirit  to  the  old 
chateau  near  Aix,  upon  a  deep  blue  evening. 

It  was  a  large  ehateau  of  the  genuine  old  ghostly  kind,  with 
round  towers,  and  extinguishers  and  a  high  leaden  roof,  and 


148  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

more  windows  than  Aladdin's  Palace.  The  lattice  blinds  were 
all  thrown  open,  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  there  were 
glimpses  of  rambling  walls  and  corridors  within.  Then,  there 
were  immense  outbuildings  fallen  into  partial  decay,  masses  of 
dark  trees,  terrace-gardens,  balustrades;  tanks  of  water,  too 
weak  to  play  and  too  dirty  to  work ;  statues,  weeds,  and  thick- 
ets of  iron  railing,  that  seemed  to  have  overgrown  themselves 
like  the  shrubberies,  and  to  have  branched  out  in  all  manner  of 
wild  shapes.  The  entrance  doors  stood  open,  as  doors  often  do 
in  that  country  when  the  heat  of  the  day  is  past ;  and  the  Cap- 
tain saw  no  bell  or  knocker,  and  walked  in. 

He  walked  into  a  lofty  stone  hall,  refreshingly  cool  and 
gloomy  after  the  glare  of  a  southern  day's  travel.  Extending 
along  the  four  sides  of  this  hall,  was  a  gallery,  leading  to  suites 
of  rooms ;  and  it  was  lighted  from  the  top.  Still,  no  bell  was 
to  be  seen. 

"  Faith,"  said  the  Captain,  halting,  ashamed  of  the  clanking 
of  his  boots,  "  this  is  a  ghostly  beginning !" 

He  started  back,  and  felt  his  face  turn  white.  In  the  gal- 
lery, looking  down  at  him,  stood  th'e  French  officer ;  the  officer 
whose  picture  he  had  carried  in  his  mind  so  long  and  so  far. 
Compared  with  the  original,  at  last — in  every  lineament  how 
like  it  was ! 

He  moved,  and  disappeared,  and  Captain  Richard  Double- 
dick  heard  his  steps  coming  quickly  down  into  the  hall.  He 
entered  through  an  archway.  There  was  a  bright,  sudden  look 
upon  his  face.  Much  such  a  look  as  it  had  worn  in  that  fatal 
moment. 

Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Richard  Doubledick  ?  Enchanted  to 
receive  him !  A  thousand  apologies !  The  servants  were  all 
out  in  the  air.  There  was  a  little  fete  among  them  in  the  gar- 
den. In  effect,  it  was  the  fete  day  of  my  daughter,  the  little 
cherished  and  protected  of  Madame  Taunton. 

He  was  so  gracious  and  so  frank,  that  Monsieur  le  Capitaine 
Richard  Doubledick  could  not  withhold  his  hand.  "  It  is  the 
hand  of  a  brave  Englishman,"  said  the  French  officer,  retaining 
it  while  he  spoke.  "  I  could  respect  a  brave  Englishman,  even 
as  my  foe  j  how  much  more  as  my  friend  !  I,  also,  am  a  sol- 
dier." 

"  He  has  not  remembered  me,  as  I  have  remembered  him ; 
he  did  not  take  such  note  of  my  face,  that  day,  as  I  took  of 
his,"  thought  Captain  Richard  Doubledick.  "  How  shall  I  tell 
him?" 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  149 

The  French  officer  conducted  his  guest  into  a  garden,  and 
presented  him  to  his  wife;  an  engaging  and  beautiful  woman, 
sitting  with  Mrs.  Taunton  in  a  whimsical  old-fashioned  pavilion. 
His  (laughter,  her  fair  young  face  beaming  with  joy,  came  run- 
ning to  embrace  him;  and  there  was  a  boy-baby  to  tumble 
down  among  the  orange-trees  on  the  broad  steps,  in  making  for 
his  father's  legs.  A  multitude  of  children-visitors  were  dancing 
t<»  sprightly  music;  and  all  the  servants  and  peasants  about  the 
chateau  were  dancing  too.  It  was  a  scene  of  innocent  happi- 
ness that  might  have  been  invented  for  the  climax  of  the  scenes 
of  peace  which  had  soothed  the  Captain's  journey. 

lie  looked  on,  greatly  troubled  in  his  mind,  until  a  resound- 
ing bell  rang,  and  the  French  officer  begged  to  show  him  his 
rooms.  They  went  up  stairs  into  the  gallery  from  which  the 
.  had  looked  down ;  and  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Richard 
Doubledick  was  cordially  welcomed  to  a  grand  outer  chamber, 
an«l  a  smaller  one  within,  all  clocks  and  draperies,  and  hearths, 
and  brazen  dogs,  and  tiles,  and  cool  devices,  and  elegance,  and 
vast: 

•••  Y<>u  were  at  Waterloo,."  said  the  French  officer. 

"I  was,"  said  Captain  Jiichard  Doubledick.  "And  at  Bada- 
jos." 

:  alone  with  the  sound  of  his  own  stern  voice  in  his  ears, 
,:  down  to  consider.     What  shall  I  do, and  how  shall  I  tell 
him.'      At  that  time,  unhappily,  many  deplorable  duels  had  been 
i  Kngli>h  ami  French  officers,  arising  out  of  the 
recent  war;  and  these  duels,  and  how  to  avoid  this  officer's  hos- 
pitality were  the  uppermost  thought  in  Captain  Richard  Doub- 
le, lick's  mind. 

He  was  thinking  and  letting  the  time  run  out  in  which  he 
should  have  dressed  for  dinner,  when  Mrs.  Taunton  spoke  to 
him  outside  the  door,  asking  it'  he  could  give  her  the  letter  he 
had  brought  from  Mary.  u  His  mother,  above  all,"  the  Captain 
thought,  u How  shall  I  tell  her?" 

••  You  will  form  a  friendship  with  your  host,  I  hope,"  said 
Mr-.  Taunton,  whom  In-  hurriedly  admitted,  "that  will  last  for 
life.  II.-  ifl  BO  true-hearted  and  so  generous,  Richard,  that  you 
can  hardly  fail  to  e>teem  one  another.  If  he  had  been  spared," 
-he  kissed  (not  without  tears)  the  locket  in  which  she  wore  his 
hair,  "lie  would  have  appreciated  him  with  his  owrn  magnanim- 
.n.l  would  have  been  truly  happy  that  the  evil  days  were 
past,  which  made  Hidi^i  man  his  enemy." 

She  left  the  room ;  and  the  Captain  walked  first  to  one  win- 


150  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

dow,  whence  lie  could  see  the  dancing  in  the  garden,  then  to 
another  window,  whence  he  could  see  the  smiling  prospect  and 
the  peaceful  vineyards. 

"  Spirit  of  my  departed  friend,"  said  he,  "  is  it  through  thee, 
these  better  thoughts  are  rising  in  my  mind  !  Is  it  thou  who 
hast  shown  me,  all  the  way  I  have  been  drawn  to  meet  this 
man,  the  blessings  of  the  altered  time !  Is  it  thou  who  hast 
sent  thy  stricken  mother  to  me,  to  stay  my  angry  hand !  Is  it 
from  thee  the  whisper  comes,  that  this  man  did  his  duty  as 
thou  didst — and  as  I  did,  through  thy  guidance,  which  has 
wholly  saved  me,  here  on  earth — and  that  he  did  no  more !" 

He  sat  down,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  and,  when 
he  rose  up,  made  the  second  strong  resolution  of  his  life :  That 
neither  to  the  French  officer,  nor  to  the  mother  of  his  departed 
friend,  nor  to  any  soul  while  either  of  the  two  was  living, 
would  he  breathe  what  only  he  knew.  And  when  he  touched 
that  French  officer's  glass  with  his  own,  that  day  at  dinner,  he 
secretly  forgave  him  in  the  name  of  the  Divine  Forgiver  of  in- 
juries. 


TO  A  SKYLARK.— PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wort, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  hi'avim 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yd  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


THE   LADIES1  HEADER.  151 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
"\Vhose  intfiise  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud, 

when  night  is  bare, 
Emm  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

"\Vhat  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  theo ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Amoug  the  llowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd 

'Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy  winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
llnin-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine ; 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wino 
That  pant«.-(l  forth  a  flood  of  rnpture  so  divine. 


152  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Match' d  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing-  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

"What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
"What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
"What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  never  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  siucerest  laughter 

"With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


ALICE  BAY— Mns.  SARAH  J.  HALE. 

The  birds  their  love-notes  warble 

Among  the  blossomed  trees ; 
The  flowers  are  sighing  forth  their  sweets 

To  wooing  honeybees ; 
The  glad  brook  o'er  a  pebbly  floor 

Goes  dancing  on  its  way — 
But  not  a  thing  is  so  like  spring 

As  happy  Alice  Ray. 


Till-;   LADIES'  HEADER.  ]53 

An  only  child  was  Alice, 

And,  like  the  blest  above, 
The  gentle  maid  had  ever  breathed 

An  atmosphere  of  love ; 
Her  father's  smile  like  sunshine  came, 

Like  dew  her  mother's  kiss ; 
Their  love  and  goodness  made  her  home, 

Like  heaven,  the  place  of  bliss. 

Beneath  such  tender  training 

The  joyous  child  had  sprung, 
Like  one  bright  flower,  in  wild-wood  bower, 

And  gladness  round  her  flung; 
And  all  who  met  her  blessed  her, 

And  tinned  ngain  to  pray, 
That  grief  and  care  might  ever  spare 

Tin-  happy  Alice 

ft  that  made  her  charming 

Was  not  iVoni  Venus  caught; 
Nor  was  it,  Pallas-like,  derived 

From  majesty  of  thought: 
Her  healthful  check  was  tinged  with  brown, 

Her  hair  without  a  curl — 
But  then  her  eyes  were  love-lit  stars, 

Her  teeth  as  pure  as  pearl. 

And  when  in  merry  laughter 

Her  sweet,  clear  voice  was  heard, 
It  welled  tVuin  out  her  happy  heart 

Like  carol  of  a  bird : 
And  all  who  heard  \veiv  moved  |o  gmi 

As  at  some  mirthful  lay. 
And,  to  the  stranger's  1, „',!<,  replied. 

"  'T  is  that  dear  Alice  Kay." 

And  so  she  came,  like  sunbeams 

That  bring  the  April  green — 
As  type  of  nature's  royalty, 

They  called  her  "  Woodburn's  queen  1 " 
A  sweet,  heart-lifting  cheerfulness, 

Like  springtime  of  the  year, 
Seemed  ever  on  her  steps  to  wait — 

No  wonder  she  was  dear. 

Her  world  was  ever  joyous — 

She  thought  of  grief  and  pain 
As  giants  of  the  olden  time, 

That  ne'er  would  come  again; 
Tho  seasons  all  had  eharms  for  her, 

She  welcomed  each  with  joy — 
The  charm  that  in  her  spirit  lived 

No  changes  could  destroy. 


154  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Her  love  made  all  things  lovely, 
For  in  the  heart  must  live 

The  feeling  that  imparts  the  charm — 
We  gain  by  what  we  give. 


SHAKSPEARE.— CHARLES  SPKAQUE. 

Then  Shakspeare  rose! — 
Across  the  trembling  strings 
His  daring  hand  he  flings, 
And  lo !  a  new  creation  glows ! — 
There  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vassal  train  his  high  commands  fulfil. 

Madness,  with  his  frightful  scream, 
Vengeance,  leaning  on  his  lance, 
Avarice,  with  his  blade  and  beam, 
Hatred,  "blasting  with  a  glance, 
Remorse,  that  weeps,  and  Rage,  that  roars, 
And  Jealousy,  that  dotes,  but  dooms,  and  murders,  yet  adores. 

Mirth,  his  face  with  sunbeams  lit, 

Waking  Laughter's  merry  swell, 

Arm-in-arm  with  fresh-eyed  Wit, 

That  waves  his  tingling  lash,  while  Folly  shakes  his  bell. 
From  the  feudal  tower  pale  Terror  rushing, 

Where  the  prophet  bird's  wail 

Dies  along  the  dull  gale, 
And  the  sleeping  monarch's  blood  is  gushing. 

Despair,  that  haunts  the  gurgling  stream, 
Kissed  by  the  virgin  moon's  cold  beam, 
Where  some  lost  maid  wild  chaplets  wreathes, 
And  swan-like  there  her  own  dirge  breathes. 
Then  broken-hearted  sinks  to  rest, 
Beneath  the  bubbling  wave  that  shrouds  her  maniac  breast. 

Young  Love,  with  eye  of  tender  gloom, 
Now  drooping  o'er  the  hallowed  tomb 
Where  his  plighted  victims  lie, 
Where  they  met,  but  met  to  die  : — 
And  now,  when  crimson  buds  are  sleeping, 

Through  the  dewy  arbor  peeping, 
Where  beauty's  child,  the  frowning  world  forgot, 
To  youth's  devoted  tale  is  listening, 
Rapture  on  her  dark  lash  glistening, 
While  fairies  leave  their  cowslip  cells,  and  guard  the  happy  spot. 


TI1K   LADIES'  READER.  155 

Thus  rise  the  phantom  throng, 
Obedient  to  their  master's  song, 

And  lend  in  willing  chain  the  wondering  soul  along. 

For  other  worlds  war's  great  one  sighed  in  vain — 
O'er  other  worlds  see  Shakspeare  rove  and  reign ! 
The  rapt  magician  of  his  own  wild  lay, 
Karth  and  her  tribes  his  mystic  wand  obey; 
Old  ocean  trembles,  thunder  cracks  the  skies, 
Air  teems  with  shapes  and  tell-tale  spectres  rise  : 
Night's  paltering  hags  their  fearful  orgies  keep, 
And  faithless  guilt  unseals  the  lip  of  sleep : 
Time  yields  his  trophies  up,  and  death  restores 
The  mouldered  victims  of  his  voiceless  shores. 
The  fireside  legend,  and  the  faded  page, 
The  crime  that  cursed,  the  deed  that  blessed  an  age, 
All,  all  come  forth — the  good  to  charm  and  cheer, 
To  scdurge  bold  viee.  and  start  the  generous  tear; 
With  pictured  folly  gazing  fools  to  shame, 

And  guide  young  Glory's  foot  along  the  path  of  fame. 


CORIOLANUS  AND 

Tlie  Tent  of  Coriolanus. 
Enter  COI:K>I,\M 's.  Arnnius,  and  others. 
Cor.  We  will  before  the  walls  of  Rome  to-morrow 

<iown  our  host. — My  partner  in  this  action, 
You  must  report  to  the  Volstiau  lords,  how  plainly 
1  have  borne-  this  business. 
Auf.  Only  their  ends 

have  respected;  stopp'd  your  ears  against 
The  general  suit  of  Rome;   never  admitted 
A  private  whisper,  no,  not  with  such  friends 
That  thought  them  sure  of  you. 

Cor.  This  last  old  man, 

Whom  with  a  crack'd  heart  I  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Lov'd  me  above  the  measure  of  a  father; 

«lded  me,  indeed.     Their  latest  refuge 
Was  to  send  him ;  for  whose  old  love,  I  have 

S  hough  I  shew'd  sourly  to  him,)  once  more  offered 
le  first  conditions,  which  they  did  refuse, 
And  cannot  now  accept,  to  grace  him  only, 
That  thought  ho  could  do  more ;  a  very  little 
I  have  yielded  too :   Fresh  embassies  and  suits, 
Nor  from  the  state,  nor  private  friends,  hereafter 
Will  I  lend  ear  to. — Ha  !    what  shout  is  this  ? 

[Shout  within. 

Shall  F  1)0  tempted  to  infringe  my  vow 

In   the  same  time  'tis  made  ?     I  will  not.— 


156  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Enter,  in  mourning  habits,  YIRGILIA,  VOLUMXIA,  leading 
young  MARCIUS,  VALERIA,  and  Attendants. 

My  wife  comes  foremost;    then  the  honor'd  mould 
Wherein  this  trunk  was  fram'd,  and  in  her  hand 
The  grand-child  to  her  blood.     But,  out,  affection  ! 
All  bond  and  privilege  of  nature  break  ! 
Let  it  be  virtuous,  to  be  obstinate. — 
What  is  that  curt'sy  worth  ?  or  those  doves'  eyes, 
Which  can  make  gods  forsworn  ? — I  melt,  and  am  not 
Of  stronger  earth  than  others. — My  mother  bows ; 
As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  should 
•  In  supplication  nod :  and  my  young  boy 

Hath  an  aspect  of  intercession,  which 
Great  nature  cries,  Deny  not. — Let  the  Voices 
Plough  Rome,  and  harrow  Italy :   I'll  never 
Be  such  a  gosling  to  obey  instinct;  but  stand, 
As  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself, 
And  knew  no  other  kin. 

Vir.  My  lord  and  husband  ! 

Cor.  These  eyes  are  not  the  same  I  wore  in  Rome. 

Vir.  The  sorrow,  that  delivers  us  thus  chang'd, 
Makes  you  think  so. 

Cor.  Like  a  dull  actor  now, 

I  have  forgot  my  part,  and  I  am  out, 
Even  to  a  full  disgrace.     Best  of  my  flesh, 
Forgive  my  tyranny ;  but  do  not  say, 
For  that,  Forgive  our  Romans. — 0,  a  kiss 
Long  as  my  exile,  sweet  as  my  revenge ; 
Now  by  the  jealous  queen  of  heaven,  that  kiss 
I  carried  from  thee,  dear ;  and  my  true  lip 
Hath  virgin'd  it  e'er  since. — You  gods !    I  prate, 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted :  Sink,  my  knee,  i'  the  earth ;  [Kneels. 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Than  that  of  common  sons. 

Vol.  0,  stand  up  bless VI ! 

.    Whilst,  with  no  softer  cushion  than  the  flint, 
I  kneel  before  thee ;  and  unproperly 
Show  duty,  as  mistaken  all  the  while 
Between  the  child  and  parent.  [Kneels. 

Cor.  What  is  this  ? 

Your  knees  to  me  ?  to  your  corrected  son  ? 
Then  let  the  pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach 
Fillip  the  stars ;    then  let  the  mutinous  winds 
Strike  the  proud  cedars  'gainst  the  fiery  sun ; 
Murd'ring  impossibility  to  make 
What  cannot  be,  slight  work. 

Vol.  Thou  art  my  warrior; 

I  holp  to  frame  thee.     Do  you  know  this  lady  ? 

Cor.  The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome;  chaste  as  the  icicle, 
That's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 


THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple  :  Dear  Valeria  ! 

This  is  a  poor  epitome  of  yours, 
"Which  by  the  interpretation  of  full  tune 
May  show  like  all  yourself. 

Cor.  The  god  of  soldiers, 

"With  the  consent  of  supremo  Jove,  inform 
Thy  thoughts  with  nobleness;  that  thou  may'st  prove 
To  si  lame  unvulncrable,  and  stick  i'  the  wars 
Like  a  great  sea-mark,  standing  every  flaw, 
And  saving  those  that  eye  thee  ! 

Vol.  Your  knee,  sirrah. 

Cor.  That's  my  brave  boy. 

Vol.   Kvcu  he,  JOUT  wife," this  lady,  and  myself, 
Are  suitors  to  you. 

Cor.  I  beseech  you,  peace : 

Or,  if  you'd  ask,  remember  this  before; 
The  things,  I  have  forsworn  to  grant,  may  never 
Be  held  by  your  denials.     Do  not  bid  me 
Dismiss  my  soldiers,  or  capitulate 

with  Rome's  mechanics: — Tell  me  not 
"W herein  I  seem  unnatural :    Desire  not 
To  allay  my  rage  and  my  revenges,  with 
eolder  reasons. 

VoL  0,  no  more,  no  more ! 

You  have  said,  you  will  not  grant  us  any  thing. 
For  we  have  nothing  else  to  ask,  but  that 
"Which  you  deny  already:  yet  we  will  ask; 
That,  if  you  fail  in  our  request,  the  Maine 
May  hang  upon  your  hardness;  therefore  hear  us. 

Cor.   Aufidius,  and  you  Voices,  mark  ;  for  we'll 
Hear  nought  from  Rome  in  private. — Your  request  ? 

Vol.   Should  we  bo  silent  and  not  speak,  our  raiment, 
Ami  state  ofliouies  would  bewray  what  life 
\\".-  have  1"!  sinec  thy  exile.     Think  with  thyself, 
How  more  unfortunate  fhan  all  living  women 
Are  wo  come  hither:  since  that  thy  sight,  which  should 
Make  our  eyes  l!o\\-  \\iih  joy,  hearts  dailco  with  comfort, 
•  iiciu  wt •(•]>,  and  shake  with  fear  and  sorrow; 
Making  the  mother,  wife,  and  child,  to  see 

n,  the  husband,  and  the  father,  tearing 
mtry's  bowels  out.     And  to  poor  we, 
Thine  enmity's  most  capital:    thou  barr'st  us 
Our  prayers  to  the  gods,  which  is  a  comfort 
That  all  but  wo  enjoy :   For  how  can  we, 
Alas  I   how  can  wo  for  our  countiy  pray, 
Wheivto  \vo  are  bound;  together  with  thy  victory, 
"Whereto  we  are  bound  ?    Alack  I    or  we  must  lose 

'  ountry,  our  dear  nurse;  or  else  thy  person, 
Our  comfort  in  the  country.     We  must  find 
An  evident  calamity,  though  wo  had 
Our  wish,  whieh  side  should  win :  for  either  thou 
Must,  ag  a  foreign  recreant,  bo  led 


158  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

With  manacles  through  our  streets,  or  else 
Triumphantly  tread  on  thy  country's  ruin ; 
And  bear  the  palm,  for  having  bravely  shed 
Thy  wife  and  children's  blood.     For  myself,  son, 
I  purpose  not  to  wait  on  fortune,  till 
These  wars  determine  :   if  I  cannot  persuade  thee 
Rather  to  show  a  noble  grace  to  both  parts, 
Than  seek  the  end  of  one,  thou  shalt  no  sooner 
March  to  assault  thy  country,  than  to  tread 
(Trust  to't,  thou  shalt  not,)  on  thy  mother, 
Who  brought  thee  to  this  world. 

Vir.  Ay,  and  on  me, 

That  brought  you  forth  this  boy,  to  keep  your  name 
Living  to  time. 

Boy.  He  shall  not  tread  on  me ; 

I'll  run  away  till  I  am  bigger;  but  then  I'll  fight. 

Cor.   Not  of  a  woman's  tenderness  to  be, 
Requires  nor  child's  nor  woman's  face  to  see. 
I  have  sat  too  long.  [Rising. 

Vol.  Nay,  go  not  from  us  thus. 

If  it  were  so  that  our  request  did  tend 
To  save  the  Romans,  thereby  to  destroy 
The  Voices  whom  you  serve,  you  might  condemn  us, 
As  poisonous  of  your  honor :   No ;  our  suit, 
Is,  that  you  reconcile  them :    While  the  Voices 
May  say,  This  mercy  we  have  showed;  the  Romans, 
This  we  received ;  and  each  in  either  side 
Give  the  all-hail  to  thee,  and  cry  Be  blessjd 
For  making  up  this  peace  !   Thou  know'st  great  son, 
The  end  of  war's  uncertain ;  but  this  certain, 
That,  if  thou  conquer  Rome,  the  benefit 
Which  thou  shalt  thereby  reap  is  such  a  name, 
Whose  repetition  will  be  dogg'd  with  curses ; 
Whose  chronicle  thus  writ, — The  man  was  noble. 
But  with  his  last  attempt  he  wip'd  it  out ; 
Destroyed  his  country ;  and  Ms  name  remains 
To  the  ensuing  age,  abhorred.     Speak  to  me,  son : 
Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honor, 
To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods ; 
To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 
And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a  bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.     Why  dost  not  speak  ? 
Think'st  thou  it  honorable  for  a  noble  man 
Still  to  remember  wrongs  ? — Daughter,  speak  you. 
He  cares  not  for  your  weeping.     Speak  thou,  boy : 
Perhaps,  thy  childishness  will  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  reasons. — There  is  no  man  in  the  world 
More  bound  to  his  mother  ;   yet  here  he  lets  me  prate, 
Like  one  i'  the  stocks.     Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy ; 
When  she,  (poor  hen  !)  fond  of  no  second  brood, 
Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  home, 


THE  LADIKS'  READER,  15g 

Loaden  with  honor.     Say,  my  request's  unjust, 
And  spurn  me  back :   But,  if  it  be  not  so, 
Thou  art  not  honest ;  and  the  gods  will  plague  thee, 
That  tliou  rostrain'at  from  me  the  duty,  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs.     He  turns  away : 
Down,  ladies ;  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 
To  his  surname  Coriolanus  'longs  more  pride, 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers.     Down ;   An  end : 
This  is  the  last ;  So  we  will  home  to  Rome, 
And  die  amoug  our  neighbors. — Nay,  behold  us ; 
This  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have, 
But  kneels,  and  holds  up  hands,  for  fellowship, 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strength 
Than  thou  hast  to  deny't. — Come,  let  us  go : 
This  fellow  had  a  Volscian  to  his  mother ; 
His,  wife  is  in  Corioli,  and  his  child 
Like  him  by  chance : — Yet  give  us  our  despatch : 
I  am  hush'd  until  our  city  be  afire, 
And  then  I'll  speak  a  little. 

Cor.  0  mother,  mother  ! 

[Holding  YOLUMNIA  by  the  hands,  silent 
What  have  you  done  ?    Behold,  the  heavens  do  ope, 
The  gods  look  down,  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.     0  my  mother,  mother  !   0  ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Rome : 
But,  for  your  son, — believe  It,  0,  believe  it, 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail'd, 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him.     But,  let  it  come ; — 

. ins.  though  I  cannot  make  true  wars. 
I'll  frame  convenient  peace.     Now,  good  Aufidius, 
"Were  you  in  my  stead,  say,  would  you  have  heard 
A  mother  less  ?  or  granted  less,  Autidius  ? 

Auf.  I  was  moved  withal. 

Cor.  I  dare  be  sworn,  you  were: 

And,  sir,  it  is  no  little  thing,  to  make 

eyes  to  sweat  compassion.    But,  good  sir, 
What  peace  you'll  make,  advise  mo  for  my  part, 
I'll  not  to  Borne,  I'll  Lack  with  you,  a«d  pray  you, 
Stand  to  me  in  this  cause. — 0  mother  !   wife  ! 

1  am  glad,  thou  hast  set  thy  mercy  and  thy  honor 
At  diflerence  in  thee  :  out  of  that  I'll  work 

a  former  fortune.  [Aside. 

[The  Ladies  make  signs  to  CORIOLANCS. 

Cor.  Ay,  by  and  by;     [To  VOLUMXIA,  VIRGILTA,  &c. 
But  we  will  drink  together;  and  you  shall  bear 
A  better  witness  back  than  words,  which  we, 
On  like  conditions  will  have  counter-scalM. 
Come,  enter  with  us.     Ladies,  you  deserve 
To  have  a  temple  built  you:  all  the  swords 
In  Italy,  and  her  coiifnli-rate  arms, 
Could  not  have  made  this  peace. 


i60  THE  LADIES1  READER. 


THE  HEAD  OE  MEMNON— Hoiuun  SMITH. 

lu  Egypt's  centre,  when  the  world  was  young, 
My  statue  soar'd  aloft — a  man-shaped  tower, 

O'er  hundred-gated  Thebes,  by  Homer  sung, 
And  built  by  Apis'  and  Osiris'  power. 

When  the  sun's  infant  eye  more  brightly  blazed, 
I  mark'd  the  labors  of  unwearied  time  ; 

And  saw,  by  patient  centuries  up-raised, 
Stupendous  temples,  obelisks  sublime ! 

Hewn  from  the  rooted  rock,  some  mightier  mound 
Some  new  colossus  more  enormous  springs, 

So  vast,  so  firm,  that,  as  I  gazed  around, 
I  thought  them,  like  myself,  eternal  things. 

Then  did  I  mark  in  sacerdotal  state, 

Psammis  the  king,  whose  alabaster  tomb, 

(Such  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  fate,) 

Now  lloats  athwart  the  sea  to  share  my  doom. 

0  Thebes,  I  cried,  thou  wonder  of  the  world  ! 

Still  shalt  thou  soar,  its  everlasting  boast : 
When  lo !  the  Persian  standards  were  unfurl'd, 

And  fierce  Cambyses  led  the  invading  host. 

Where  from  the  east  a  dust  of  cloud  proceeds, 
A  thousand  banner'd  suns  at  once  appear ; 

Nought  else  was  seen ;— 'but  sound  of  neighing  steeds 
And  faint  barbaric  music  met  mine  ear. 

Onward  they  march,  and  foremost  I  descried 
A  cuirassed  Grecian  band  in  phalanx  dense, 

Around  them  throng'd,  in  oriental  pride, 
Commingled  tribes — a  wild  magnificence. 

Dogs,  cats,  and  monkeys  in  their  van  they  show, 
Which  Egypt's  children  worship  and  obey ; 

They  fear  to  strike  a  sacrilegious  blow, 
And  fall — a  pious,  unresisting  prey. 

Then  havoc,  leaguing  with  infuriate  zeal, 

Palaces,  temples,  cities  are  o'erthrown ; 
Apis  is  stabb'd! — Cambyses  thrusts  the  steel, 

And  shuddering  Egypt  heaved  a  general  groan  I 

The  firm  Memnonium  mock'd  their  feeble  power, 
Flames  round  its  granite  columns  hiss'd  in  vain, 

The  head  of  Isis,  frowning  o'er  each  tower, 
Look'd  down  with  indestructible  disdain. 


TilK    LADIES'   READER, 

Mine  was  a  deeper  aud  more  quick  disgrace : — 
BerifAth  my  shade  a  wondering  army  flock'd; 

With  force  combined,  they  wrench'd  me  from  my  base, 
And  earth  beneath  the  dread  concussion  rock'd. 

Nile  from  his  banks  receded  with  affright, 

The  startled  Sphynx  long  trembled  at  the  sound; 

"While  from  each  pyramid's  astounded  height, 
The  looson'd  stones  slid  rattling  to  the  ground. 

I  watch'd,  QS  in  the  dust  supine  I  lay, 

The  fall  of  Thebes— as  I  had  mark'd  its  fame- 
Till  crumbling  down,  as  ages  roll'd  away, 
Its  site  a  lonely  wilderness  became ! 

The  throngs  that  choked  its  hundred  gates  of  yore, 
Jts  fleets,  its  armies,  were  no  longer  seen ; 

Its  priesthood's  pomp,  its  Pharaohs  were  no  more — 
All — all  were  gone — as  if  they  ne'er  had  been! 

Deep  was  the  silence  now,  unless  some  vast 
Ajid  timo-worn  fragment  thunder'd  to  its  base ; 

"Whose  sullen  echoes,  o'er  the  desert  cast, 
Died  in  the  distant  solitude  of  space. 

Or  haply,  in  the  palaces  of  kings, 

Some  stray  jackal  sate  howling  on  the  throne : 
Or,  on  the  temple's  holiest  altar,  springs 

Some  gaunt  hyjjena,  laughing  all  alone. 

Nature  o'erwhelms  the  relics  left  by  time ; — 
By  slow  degrees  entombing  all  the  land ; 

She  buries  every  monument  sublime, 
Beneath  a  mighty  winding-sheet  of  sand. 

Vain  is  each  monarch's  unremitting  pains, 
Who  in  the  rock  his  place  of  burial  delves ; 

Behold!  their  proudest  palaces  and  fanes 
Are  subterraneous  sepulchres  themselves. 

v-threc  centuries  unmoved  I  lay, 
And  saw  the  tide  of  sand  around  me  rise; 
Quickly  it  threaten'd  to  engulf  its  prey, 
And  close  in  everlasting  night  mine  eyes. 

SnatHi'd  in  this  crisis  from  my  yawning  grave. 

Belzoni  roll'd  me  to  the  banks  of  Nile, 
Ami  slowly  ln-aving  o'er  the  western  wave, 

This  massy  fragment  reach'd  the  imperial  isle. 

In  London,  now  with  face  erect  I  gaze 

On  England's  pallid  sons,  whose  eyes  upcast, 

View  my  collossal  features  with  amaze, 
And  deeply  ponder  on  my  glories  past. 
11 


]62  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

But  who  my  future  destiny  shall  guess  ? 

Saint  Paul's  may  lie,  like  Memnon's  temple,  low . 
London,  like  Thebes,  maybe  a  wilderness, 

And  gharries,  like  Nile,  through  silent  ruins  flow. 

Then  haply  may  my  travels  be  renew'd  : — 
Some  transatlantic  hand  may  break  my  rest, 

And  bear  me  from  Augusta's  solitude, 
To  some  new  seat  of  empire  in  the  west. 

Mortal !  since  human  grandeur  ends  in  dust, 
And  proudest  piles  must  crumble  to  decay ; 

Build  up  the  tower  of  thy  final  trust 

In  those  blest  realms — where  naught  shall  pass  away ! 


THE  DUMB  WAITER.— FREDERIC  S.  COZZENS. 

WE  have  put  a  dumb  waiter  in  our  house.  A  dumb  waiter 
is  a  good  thing  to  have  in  the  country,  on  account  of  its  con- 
venience. If  you  have  company,  everything  can  be  sent  up 
from  the  kitchen  without  any  trouble,  and,  if  the  baby  gets  to 
be  unbearable,  on  account  of  his  teeth,  you  can  dismiss  the 
complainant  by  stuffing  him  in  one  of  the  shelves,  and  letting 
him  down  upon  the  help.  To  provide  for  contingencies,  we 
had  all  our  floors  deafened.  In  consequence,  you  cannot  hear 
anything  that  is  going  on  in  the  story  below ;  and,  when  you 
are  in  an  upper  room  of  the  house,  there  might  be  a  democratic 
ratification  meeting  in  the  cellar,  and  you  would  not  know  it. 
Therefore,  if  any  one  should  break  into  the  basement,  it  would 
not  disturb  us;  but  to  please  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  I  put  stout 
iron  bars  in  all  the  lower  windows.  Besides,  Mrs.  Sparrow- 
grass  had  bought  a  rattle  when  she  was  in  Philadelphia;  such 
a  rattle  as  watchmen  carry  there.  This  is  to  alarm  our  neigh- 
bor, who,  upon  the  signal,  is  to  come  to  the  rescue  with  his  re- 
volver. He  is  a- rash  man,  prone  to  pull  trigger  first,  and  make 
inquiries  afterward. 

One  evening,  Mrs.  S.  had  retired,  and  I  was  busy  writing, 
when  it  struck  me  a  glass  of  ice-water  would  be  palatable.  So 
I  took  the  candle  and  a  pitcher,  and  went  down  to  the  pump. 
Our  pump  is  in  the  kitchen.  A  country  pump,  in  the  kitchen, 
is  more  convenient ;  but  a  well  with  buckets  is  certainly  most 
picturesque.  Unfortunately,  our  well  water  has  not  been  sweet 
since  it  was  cleaned  out.  First  I  had  to  open  a  bolted  door 


THE  LADIES'  READER,  163 

that  lets  you  into  the  basement-hall,  and  then  I  went  to  the 
kitchen-door,  which  proved  to  be  locked.  Then  I  remembered 
that  our  girl  always  carried  the  key  to  bed  with  her,  and  slept 
with  it  under  her  pillow.  Then  I  retraced  my  steps;  bolted 
the  basement  door,  and  went  up  in  the  dining-room.  As  is 
always  the  case,  I  found,  when  I  could  not  get  any  water,  I  was 
thirstier  than  I  supposed  I  was.  Then  I  thought  I  would  wake 
our  girl  up.  Then  I  concluded  not  to  do  it.  Then  I  thought 
of  the  well,  but  I  gave  that  up  on  account  of  its  flavor.  Then  I 
opened  the  closet  doors,  there  was  no  water  there ;  and  then  I 
thought  of  the  dumb  waiter!  The  novelty  of  the  idea  made 
me  smile;  I  took  out  two  of  the  movable  shelves,  stood  the 
pitcher  on  the  bottom  of  the  dumb  waiter,  got  in  myself  with 
the  lamp  ;  let  myself  down,  until  I  supposed  I  was  within  a  foot 
of  *.hc  floor  below,  and  then  let  go  ! 

We  came  down  so  suddenly,  that  I  was  shot  out  of  the  ap- 
paratus as  if  it  had  been  a  catapult ;  it  broke  the  pitcher,  ex- 
tinguished the  lamp,  and  landed  me  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen 
at  midnight,  with  no  fire,  and  the  air  not  much  above  the  zero 
point.  The  truth  is,  1  had  miscalculated  the  distance  of  the  de- 
scent— instead  of  falling  one  foot,  I  had  fallen  five.  My  first  im- 
pulse was,  to  ascend  by  the  way  I  came  down,  but  I  found  that 
impracticable.  Then  I  tried  the  kitchen  door, it  was  locked;  I 
tried  to  force  it  open  ;  it  was  made  of  two-inch  stuff,  and  held 
its  own.  Then  1  hoisted  a  window,  and  there  were  the  rigid 
iron  bars.  If  I  ever  felt  angry  at  anybody  it  was  at  myself,  for 
putting  up  those  bars  to  please  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass.  I  put  them 
t  to  keep  people  in,  but  to  keep  people  out. 

1  laid  my  cheek  against  the  ice-cold  barriers  and  looked  out 
at  the  sky  ;  not  a  star  \\  a-  \  i-ihle  ;  it  was  as  black  as  ink  over- 
head. Then  I  thought  of  Baron  Trcnck,  and  the  prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon.  Then  I  made  a  noi—  \  I  >h«nited  until  I  was  hoarse,  and 
ruined  our  preserving-kettle  with  the  poker.  That  brought  our 
"dogs  out  in  full  bark,  and  between  us  we  made  night  hideous. 
Then  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice,  and  listened — it  was  Mrs. 
Sparrowgrass  calling  to  me  from  the  top  of  the  stair-case.  I 
tried  to  'make  her  hear  me,  hut  the  infernal  dogs ^ united  with 
howl,  and  <jrow],  and  hark,  so  as  to  drown  my  voice,  which  is 
naturally  plaintive  and  tender.  Besides,  there  were  two  bolted 
doors  and  double  deafened  floors  between  us ;  how  could  she 
recognize  my  voice,  even  if  she  did  hear  it?  Mrs.  Sparrow- 
grass called  once  or  twice,  and  then  got  frightened ;  the  next 
thing  1  heard  was  a  sound  as  if  the  roof  had  fallen  in,  by  which 


164  THE  LADIES' READER. 

I  understood  that  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  was  springing  the  rattle  ! 
That  called  out  our  neighbor,  already  wide  awake ;  he  came  to 
the  rescue  with  a  bull-terrier,  a  Newfoundland  pup,  a  lantern, 
and  a  revolver.  The  moment  he  saw  me  at  the  window,  he  shot 
at  me,  but  fortunately  just  missed  me.  I  threw  myself  under 
the  kitchen  table,  and  ventured  to  expostulate  with  him,  but  he 
would  not  listen  to  reason.  In  the  excitement  I  had  forgotten 
his  name,  and  that  made  matters  worse.  It  was  not  until  he 
had  roused  up  everybody  around,  broken  in  the  basement  door 
with  an  axe,  gotten  into  the  kitchen  with  his  cursed  savage 
dogs  and  shooting-iron,  and  seized  me  by  the  collar,  that  he 
recognized  me — and  then,  he  wanted  me  to  explain  it !  But 
what  kind  of  an  explanation  could  I  make  to  him  ?  I  told  him 
he  would  have  to  wait  until  my  mind  was  composed,  and  then 
I  would  let  him  understand  the  whole  matter  fully.  But  he 
never  would  have  had  the  particulars  from  me,  for  I  do  not  ap- 
prove of  neighbors  that  shoot  at  you,  break  in  your  door,  and 
treat  you,  in  your  own  house,  as  if  you  were  a  jail-bird.  He 
knows  all  about  it,  however — somebody  has  told  him — some- 
body tells  everybody  everything  in  our  village. 


THE  FATE  OF  ANDRE—  ALEXAXDEB  HAMILTON. 

NEVER,  perhaps,  did  any  man  suffer  death  with  more  justice, 
or  deserve  it  less.  The  first  step  he  took,  after  his  capture,  was 
to  write  a  letter  to  Ge'neral  Washington,  conceived  in  terms  of 
dignity  without  insolence,  and  apology  without  meanness.  The 
scope  of  it  was  to  vindicate  himself  from  the  imputation  of  hav- 
ing assumed  a  mean  character  for  treacherous  or  interested  pur- 
poses ;  asserting  that  he  had  been  involuntarily  an  impostor ; 
that  contrary  to  his  intention,  which  was  to  meet  a  person  for 
intelligence  on  neutral  ground,  he  had  been  betrayed  within 
our  posts,  and  forced  into  the  vile  condition  of  an  enemy  in  dis- 
guise ;  soliciting  only,  that,  to  whatever  rigor  policy  might  de- 
vote him,  a  decency  of  treatment  might  be  observed,  due  to  a 
person,  who,  though  unfortunate,  had  been  guilty  of  nothing 
dishonorable.  His  request  was  granted  in  its  full  extent ;  for, 
in  the  whole  progress  of  the  affair,  he  was  treated  with  the 
most  scrupulous  delicacy.  When  brought  before  the  Board  of 
Officers,  he  met  with  every  mark  of  indulgence,  and  was  re- 


THE  LADIES'   READER.  165 

quired  to  answer  no  interrogatory  which  could  even  embarrass 
his  feelings.  On  his  part,  while  he  carefully  concealed  every 
thing  that  might  involve  others,  he  frankly  confessed  all  the 
facts  relating  to  himself;  and,  upon  his  confession,  without  the 
trouble  of  examining  a  witness,  the  board  made  their  report. 
The  members  of  it  were  not  more  impressed  with  the  candor 
and  firmness,  mixed  with  a  becoming  sensibility,  which  he  dis- 
played, than  lie  was  penetrated  with  their  liberality  and  polite- 
ness. He  acknowledged  the  generosity  of  the  behaviour  toward 
him  in  every  resprei,  but  particularly  in  this,  in  the  strongest 
terms  of  manly  gratitude.  In  a  conversation  with  a  gentleman 
wh<>  visited  him  after  his  trial,  he  said  he  flattered  himself  he 
had  never  been  illiberal;  but  if  there  were  any  remains  of  pre- 
judice in  his  mind,  his  present  experience  must  obliterate  them. 

In  one  of  the  visits  I  made  t«>  him,  (and  I  saw  him  several 
times  during  his  confinement,)  lie  begged  me  to  be  the  bearer 
of  a  request  to  the  general,  for  permission  to  send  an  open  let- 
ter to  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  "I  foresee  my  fate,"  said  he,  "and 
though  I  pretend  not  to  play  the  hero,  or  to  be  indifferent 
about  life,  yet  I  am  reconciled  to  whatever  may  happen,  con- 
scious that  misfortune,  not  guilt,  has  brought  it  upon  me. 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  disturbs  my  tranquillity.  Sir 
Henry  (  Tinton  has  been  too  good  to  me;  he  has  been  lavish  of 
his  kindness.  1  am  bound  to  him  by  too  many  obligations,  and 
love  him  too  well,  to  bear  the  thought  that  he  should  reproach 
himself  or  that  others  should  reproach  him,  on  the  supposition 
of  my  having  conceived  myself  obliged,  by  his  instructions,  to 
run  the  risk  I  did.  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  leave  a  sting  in 
his  mind  that  should  imbitter  his  future  days."  lie  could 
scarce  finish  the  sentence,  bursting  into  tears  in  spite  of  his  ef- 
forts to  suppress  them;  and  with  difficulty  collected  himself 
enough  at't'T\\ard  to  add:  "I  wish  to  be  permitted  to  assure 
him,  I  did  not  act  uuder  thi>  impression,  but  submitted  to  a  ne- 
.  imposed  upon  me,  as  contrary  to  my  own  inclination  as 
to  1. is  orders."  His  request  was  readily  complied  with ;  and  he 
wrote  the  letter  annexed,  with  which  I  dare  say  you  will  be  as 
much  pl'-ased  as  I  am,  both  for  the  diction  and  sentiment. 

When  his  sentence,  was  announced  to  him,  he  remarked,  thafc 
since  it  was  his  lot  to  die,  there  was  still  a  choice  in  the  mode, 
which  would  make  a  material  difference  in  his  feelings;  and  he 
would  l.e  happy,  if  possible,  to  be  indulged  with  a  professional 
death.  He  made  a  second  application,  by  letter,  in  concise  but 
persua-iv.  terms.  It  was  thought  this  indulgence,  being  incom- 


166  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

patible  with  the  customs  of  war,  could  not  be  granted ;  and  it 
was  therefore  determined,  in  both  cases,  to  evade  an  answer,  to 
spare  him  the  sensations  which  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  in- 
tended mode  would  inflict. 

In  going  to  the  place  of  execution,  he  bowed  familiarly,  as 
he  went  along,  to  all  those  with  whom  he  had  been  acquainted 
in  his  confinement.  A  smile  of  complacency  expressed  the 
serene  fortitude  of  his  mind.  Arrived  at  the  fatal  spot,  he 
asked,  with  some  emotion,  "Must  I  then  die  in  this  manner?" 
He  was  told  it  had  been  unavoidable.  "  I  am  reconciled  to  my 
fate,"  said  he,  "  but  not  to  the  mode."  Soon,  however,  recol- 
lecting himself,  he  added:  "It  will  be  but  a  momentary  pang;" 
and,  springing  upon  the  cart,  performed  the  last  offices  to  him- 
self, with  a  composure  that  excited  the  admiration  and  melted 
the  hearts  of  the  beholders.  Upon  being  told  the  final  moment 
was  at  hand,  and  asked  if  he  had  anything  to  say,  he  answered, 
"Nothing,  but  to  request  you  will  witness  to  the  world,  that  I 
die  like  a  brave  man."  Among  the  extraordinary  circumstances 
that  attended  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies,  he  died  univer- 
sally esteemed  and  universally  regretted. 

There  was  something  singularly  interesting  in  the  character 
and  fortunes  of  Andre.  To  an  excellent  understanding,  well  im- 
proved by  education  and  travel,  he  united  a  peculiar  elegance 
of  mind  and  manners,  and  the  advantage  of  a  pleasing  person. 
'Tis  said  he  possessed  a  pretty  taste  for  the  fine  arts,  and  had 
himself  attained  some  proficiency  in  poetry,  music,  and  paint- 
ing. His  knowledge  appeared  without  ostentation,  and  embel- 
lished by  a  diffidence  that  rarely  accompanies  so  many  talents 
and  accomplishments;  which  left  you  to  suppose  more  than 
appeared.  His  sentiments  were  elevated,  and  inspired  esteem : 
they  had  a  softness  that  conciliated  affection.  His  elocution 
was  handsome ;  his  address  easy,  polite,  and  insinuating.  By 
his  merit,  he  had  acquired  the  unlimited  confidence  of  his  gen- 
eral, and  was  making  a  rapid  progress  in  military  rank  and 
reputation.  But  in  the  height  of  his  career,  flushed  with  new 
hopes  from  the  execution  of  a  project,  the  most  beneficial  to  his 
party  that  could  be  devised,  he  was  at  once  precipitated  from 
the  summit  of  prosperity,  and  saw  all  the  expectations  of  his 
ambition  blasted,  and  himself  ruined. 

The  character  I  have  given  of  him  is  drawn  partly  from  what 
I  saw  of  him  myself,  and  partly  from  information.  I  am  aware 
that  a  man  of  real  merit  is  never  seen  in.  so  favorable  a  light  as 
through  the  medium  of  adversity:  the  clouds  that  surround 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  16^ 

him  arc  shades  that  set  off  his  good  qualities.  Misfortune  cuts 
down  the  little  vanities  that,  in  prosperous  times,  serve  as  so 
many  spots  in  his  virtues;  and  gives  a  tone  of  humility  that 
makes  his  -worth  more  amiable.  His  spectators,  who  enjoy  a 
happier  lot,  are  less  prone  to  detract  from  it,  through  envy,  and 
arc  more  disposed,  by  compassion,  to  give  him  the  credit  he 

:  vcs,  and  perhaps  even  to  magnify  it. 

I  speak  not  of  Andre's  conduct  in  this  affair  as  a  philosopher, 
but  as  a  man  of  tin-  world.  The  authorized  maxims  and  prac- 
tices of  war  are  the  satires  of  human  nature.  They  counten- 
ance almost  every  species  of  seduction  as  well  as  violence ;  and 
il  who  can  make  most  traitors  in  the  army  of  his  ad- 
tYcMjuently  most  applauded.  On  this  scale  we  acquit 
Andre;  while  we  could  not  but  condemn  him,  if  we  were  to 
examine  his  condm-t  by  the  sober  rules  of  philosophy  and  moral 
rectitude.  It  is,  however,  a  bhimi>h  on  his  fame,  that  he  once 
intended  to  "prostitute  a  flag:  about  this,  a  man  of  nice  honor 
ought  to  have  had  a  scruple;  but  the  temptation  was  great;  let 
his  misfortunes  cast  a  veil  over  his  error. 


IIORATIUS.  A  LAY  OF  ANCIENT 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nino  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day. 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west,  and  south  and  north 
The  messengers  ride  fast, 

And  tower,  and  town,  and  cottage, 
•  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 

Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 
Who  lingers  in  his  home, 

"\Vhen  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

The  horsemen  and  tho  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place  ; 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain; 


168  TIIK  LADIES'  READER. 

From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 
Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine. 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand : 
Evening  and  morn  the  thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given: 
"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena ; 

Go,  forth,  beloved  of  heaven; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome ; 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array, 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

Now,  from  the  rock  of  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  fathers  of  the  city, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

"With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands : 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote, 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Yerbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain ; 
Astur  hath  storm'd  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis  in  all  the  senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 

But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 
"When  that  ill  news  was  told. 


Till'!  LA!  [ES!   RKADF.U. 

Forthwith  uprose  the  consul, 

Uprose  ;lic  Fathers  all ; 
In  IM  :ded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied 'them  to  the  wall.' 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-gate ; 
Short  time  was  there,  3-0  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spoke  the  consul  roundly  : 

"The  bridjro  must  straight  go  down; 
For,  since  Jariiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  hasto  and  fear; 
"To  arms!   to  arms!  Sir  Consul; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here.'1 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  consul  rix'd  his  • 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come ; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  arid  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lara  Poreena  of  Clusium 

Sate  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name ; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  the  consul's  brow  was  sad 

And  the  consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  look'd  he  at  the  Avail, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"Their  van  will  bo  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down ; 
Ami  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ? 


]70  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius. 

The  captain  of  the  gate : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods. 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  straight  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopp'd  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  " 

Then  o\\t  spake  Spurius  Lartius ; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee  I " 
And  out  spake  strong  Hermiuius ; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"Horatius,"  quoth  the  consul, 

"As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  help'd  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great ; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portion'd ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe ; 
And  Fathers  mix'd  with  commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  ¥ 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 

i  lashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Roll'd  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent  • 

And  look'd  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 
From  all  the  vanguard  rose: 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  mighty  mass; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  Hew 

To  win  the  narrow  pass. 

And  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied, 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  1" 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"  Back,  Lartius  !    back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  1" 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius ; 

Herminius  darted  back : 
And,  as  they  pass'd,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  ttirn'd  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  cross'd  once  more. 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosen'd  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  : 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splash'd  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  toss'd  his  tawny  mane ; 


172  •  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  burst  the  curb  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free ; 
And  whirling  down  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rush'd  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Bound  turn'd  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see ; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he  ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

"  0  Tiber !  father  Tiber ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day !  " 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

"Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank  : 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain; 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armour, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  173 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Sale  to  the  landing  place. 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him  !''  quoth  false  Sextus; 

••  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

lould  have  sack'd  the  town  !" 
.ven  help  him  !"  quoth  Lars  Porsenn, 
••  Ami  brinir  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before. 

And  now  ho  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 
Xmv  round  him  throng  the  fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  tho  river-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

"When  the  goodman  mends  hi.s  armour, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume ; 
"When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom ; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  tho  brave  days  of  old. 


A  WOMAN  NEVER  VEXT—  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 
The  Woman  never  Vext  states  her  Case  to  a  Divine. 
WIDOW.      DOCTOR. 

Doc.  You  sent  for  me,  gentlewoman  ? 

Wid.  Sir,  I  did,  and  to  this  end. 
I  have  some  scruples  in  my  conscience ; 
Some  doubtful  problems  which  I  cannot  answer, 
Nor  reconcile  ;  I'd  have  you  make  them  plain. 

Doc.  This  is  my  duty;  pray  speak  your  mind. 

Wid.  And  as  I*  speak,  I  must  remember  heaven 
That  gave  those  blessings  which  I  must  relate ; 


174  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Sir,  you  now  behold  a  wondrous  woman ; 

You  only  wonder  at  the  epithet; 

I  can  approve  it  good :  guess  at  mine  age. 

Doc.  At  the  half-way  'twixt  thirty  and  forty. 

Wid.  'Twas  not  much  amiss ;  yet  nearest  to  the  last. 
How  think  you  then,  is  not  this  a  "Wonder, 
That  a  woman  lives  full  seven-and-thirty  years, 
Maid  to  a  wife,  and  wife  unto  a  widow, 
Now  widow'd,  and  mine  own ;  yet  all  this  while 
From  the  extremest  verge  of  my  remembrance, 
Even  from  my  weaning  hour  unto  this  minute, 
Did  never  taste  what  was  calamity. 
I  know  not  yet  what  grief  is,  yet  have  sought 
A  hundred  ways  for  his  acquaintance  :  with  me 
Prosperity  hath  kept  so  close  a  watch. 
That  even  those  things  that  I  have  meant  a  cross, 
Have  that  way  turn'd  a  blessing.     Is  it  not  strange  ? 

Doc.  Unparallel'd ;  this  gift  is  singular, 
And  to  you  alone  belonging :  you  are  the  moon, 
For  there 's  but  one,  all  women  else  are  stars, 
For  there  are  none  of  like  condition.  • 

Full  oft  and  many  have  I  heard  complain 
Of  discontents,  thwarts,  and  adversities ; 
But  a  second  to  yourself  I  never  knew, 
To  groan  under  the  superflux  of  blessings, 
To  have  ever  been  alien  unto  sorrow 
No  trip  of  fate  ?  sure  it  is  wonderful. 

Wid.  Aye,  Sir,  'tis  wonderful,  but  is  it  well  ? 
For  it  is  now  my  chief  affliction. 
I  have  heard  you  say  that  the  Child  of  Heaven 
Shall  suffer  many  tribulations ; 

Nay,  kings  and  princes  share  them  with  their  subjects : 
Then  I  that  know  not  any  chastisement, 
How  may  I  know  my  part  of  childhood  ? 

Doc.  'Tis  a  good  doubt ;  but  make  it  not  extreme. 
'Tis  some  affliction  that  you  are  afflicted 
For  want  of  affliction :  cherish  that : 
Yet  wrest  it  not  to  misconstruction ; 
For  all  your  blessings  are  free  gifts  from  heaven, 
Health,  wealth  and  peace  ;  nor  can  they  turn  into 
Curses,  but  by  abuse.    Pray,  let  me  question  you: 
You  lost  a  husband,  was  it  no  grief  to  you  ? 
Wid.  It  wfts,  but  very  small :   no  sooner  I 
Had  given  it  entertainment  as  a  sorrow, 
But  straight  it  turn'd  unto  my  treble  joy  : 
A  comfortable  revelation  promts  me  then, 
That  husband  (whom  in  life  I  held  so  dear) 
Had  chang'd  a  frailty  to  unchanging  joys : 
Methought  I  saw  him  stellified  in  heaven, 
And  singing  hallelujahs  'mongst  a  quire 
Of  white  sainted  souls :  then  again  it  spake, 
And  said,  it  was  a  sin  for  me  to  grieve 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  175 

At  his  best  pood,  that  I  esteemed  best ; 
And  thus  this  slender  shadow  of  a  grief 
A'anish'd  again. 

Doc.  All  this  was  happy,  nor 

Can  you  wrest  it  from  a  heavenly  blessing.     Do  not 
Appoint  the  rod :  leave  still  the  stroke  unto 
The  magistrate;  the  time  is  not  past,  but 
You  may  feel  enough. — 

.  One  taste  more  I  had,  although  but  little, 
Yet  I  would  aggravate  to  make  the  most  on 't; 
'Twas  thus:    the  other  day  it  was  my  hap, 
In  crossing  of  the  Thames, 
To  drop  that  wi-dloek  ring  from  off  my  finger, 
That  once  conjoined  me  and  my  dear  husband; 
It  sunk  ;   I  pri/.ed  it  dear;  the  dearer,  'cause  it  kept 
Still  in  mine  inory  of  my  loss; 

Yet  I  grieved  the  loss  ;  and  did  joy  withal, 
That  I  had  found  a  grief.     And  this  is  all 
The  sorrow  I  can  boast  of. 

Doc,  This  is  but  small. 

Nay,  sure,  I  am  of  this  opinion, 
That  had  I  sutt'er'd  a  draught  to  be  made  for  it, 
The  bottom  would  have  scut  it  up  again; 
I  am  so  wondrously  fortunate. 


Till]  Sl-NSK  OF  UK AUTY -CHANNINO. 

BEAUTY  is  an  all-pervading  presence.     It  unfolds  in  the  num 
berless  flowers  of  tin-  spring.     It  waves  in  the  branches  of  the 
trees  and  the  green  blades  of  grass.     It  haunts  the  depths  of 
llir  rarth  and  sea,  and  gleams  out  in  the  hues  of  the  shell  and 
tin-  precious  stone.     And   not  only  these  minute  objects,  but 
the  ocean,  the  mountains,  the  clouds,  the  heavens,  the  stars,  the 
rising  and  sotting  >un,  all  overflow  with  beauty.     The  universe 
temple;  and  those  men  who  are  alive  to  it,  cannot  lift 
their  eyes  without  feeling  themselves  encompassed  with  it  on 
v  side.     Now,  this  beauty  is  so  precious,  the  enjoyments  it 
r.  fined  and  pure,  so  congenial  with  our  tenderest 
and  noble  feelings  and  so  akin  to  worship,  that  it  is  painful  to 
think  «.f  the  multitude  of  men  as  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  and 
living  almost   as  blind  to  it  as  if,  instead  of  this  fair  earth  and 
ky,  they  were  tenants  of  a  dungeon.     An  infinite  joy 
i>  lo>t  to  tin-  world  by  the  want  of  culture  of  this  spiritual  en- 
dowment.    Suppose  that  I  were  to  visit  a  cottage,  and  to  see 


176  THE    LAD1KS'   EKADKR. 

its  walls  lined  with  the  choicest  pictures  of  Raphael,  and  every 
spare  nook  filled  with  statues  of  the  most  exquisite  workman- 
ship, and  that  I  were  to  learn  that  neither  man,  woman,  nor 
child  ever  cast  an  eye  at  these  miracles  of  art,  how  should  I  feel 
their  privation ;  how  should  I  want  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to 
help  them  to  comprehend  and  feel  the  loveliness  and  grandeur 
which  in  vain  courted  their  notice !  But  every  husbandman  is 
living  in  sight  of  the  works  of  a  diviner  Artist ;  and  how  much 
would  his  existence  be  elevated,  could  he  see  the  glory  which 
shines  forth  in  their  forms,  hues,  proportions,  and  moral  expres- 
sion !  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  beauty  of  nature,  but  how 
much  of  this  mysterious  charm  is  found  in  the  elegant  arts,  and 
especially  in  literature  ?  The  best  books  have  most  beauty. 
The  greatest  truths  are  wronged  if  not  linked  with  beauty,  and 
they  win  their  way  most  surely  and  deeply  into  the  soul  when 
arrayed  in  this  their  natural  and  fit  attire.  Now,  no  man  re- 
ceives the  true  culture  of  a  man,  in  whom  the  sensibility  to  the 
beautiful  is  not  cherished ;  and  I  know  of  no  condition  in  life 
from  which  it  should  be  excluded.  Of  all  luxuries  this  is  the 
cheapest  and  most  at  hand;  and  it  seems  to  me  to  be  most  im- 
portant to  those  conditions,  where  coarse  labor  tends  to  give  a 
grossness  to  the  mind.  From  the  diffusion  of  the  sense  of 
beauty  in  ancient  Greece,  and  of  the  taste  for  music  in  modern 
Germany,  we  learn  that  the  people  at  large  may  partake  of  re- 
fined gratifications,  which  have  hitherto  been  thought  to  be  ne- 
cessarily restricted  to  a  few. 


THE  POET  OF  THE  FUTURE-ALEXANDER  SMITH 

I  have  a  strain  of  a  departed  bard ; 

One  who  was  born  too  late  into  this  world. 

A  mighty  day  was  past,  and  he  saw  nought 

But  ebbing  sunset  and  the  rising  stars — 

Still  o'er  him  rose  those  melancholy  stars ! 

Unknown  his  childhood,  save  that  he  was  born 

'Mong  woodland  waters  full  of  silver  breaks ; 

That  he  grew  up  'mong  primroses  moon-pale 

In  the  hearts  of  purple  hills ;  that  he  o'er-ran 

G-reen  meadows  golden  in  the  level  sun, 

A  bright-haired  child;  and  that,  when  these  he  left 

To  dwell  within  a  monstrous  city's  heart, 

The  trees  were  gazing  up  into  the  sky, 


THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Their  bare  arms  stretched  in  prayer  for  the  snows. 
When  first  we  met,  his  book  was  six  months  old, 
And  eagerly  his  name  was  buzzed  abroad ; 
Praises  fell  thick  on  him.     Men  said,  "  This  Dawn 
"\Vill  widen  to  a  clear  and  boundless  Day ; 
And  when  it  ripens  to  a  sumptuous  west 
With  a  great  sunset 't  will  be  closed  and  crowned." 
Lady !  he  was  as  far  'bove  common  men 
As  a  sun-steed,  wild-eyed  and  meteor-maned, 
Neighing  tho  reeling  stars,  is  'bove  a  hack 
With  sluggish  veins  of  mud.     More  tremulous 
Than  the  soft  star  that  in  the  azure  East 
Trembles  with  pity  o'er  bright  bleeding  day, 
Was  his  frail  soul ;  I  dwelt  with  him  for  years; 
I  was  to  him  but  Labrador  to  Ind ; 
His  pearls  were  plentier  than  my  pebble-stones. 
He  was  the  sun,  I  was  that  squab — the  earth, 
And  basked  me  in  his  light  until  he  drew 
Flowers  from  my  barren  sides.     Oh !  he  was  rich, 
And  I  rejoiced  upon  his  shore  of  pearls, 
A  weak  enamored  sea.     Once  did  he  say, 
"  My  Friend  1  a  Poet  must  ere  long  arise, 
And  with  a  regal  song  sun-crown  this  age, 
As  a  saint's  head  is  with  a  halo  crown'd . — 
One  who  shall  hallow  poetry  to  God, 
One,  who  shall  fervent  grasp  the  sword  of  song 
As  a  stern  swordsman  grasps  his  keenest  blade, 
To  find  tht  quickest  passage  to  the  heart. 
A  mighty  Poet  whom  this  age  shall  choose 
To  be  its  spokesman  to  all  coming  times. 
In  the  ripe  full-blown  season  of  his  soul, 
!!>•  shall  go  forward  in  hisapirit's strength, 
And  grapple  with  the  questions  of  all  time, 
And  wring  from  them  their  meanings.     As  King  Saul 
Called  up  the  buried  prophet  from  his  grave 
To  speak  his  doom,  so  shall  this  Poet-king 
Call  up  the  dead  Past  from  its  awful  grave 
To  tell  him  of  our  fnture.     As  the  air 
Doth  sphere  the  world,  so  shall  his  heart  of  love — 
Loving  mankind,  not  peoples.    As  the  lake 
Reflects  tho  flower,  tree,  rock  and  bending  heaven, 
Shall  he  reflect  our  great  humanity ; 
And  as  the  young  Spring  breathes  with  living  breath 
On  a  dead  branch  till  it  sprouts  fragrantly 
Green  leaves  and  sunny  flowers,  shall  he  breathe  life 
Through  every  theme  he  touch,  making  all  Beauty 
And  Poetry  forever  like  the  stars." 
12    ' 


178  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


THE  VIRGINIAN  GENTLEMAN -JOHN  P.  KENNEDY. 

FRANK  MERIWETHER  is  now  in  the  meridian  of  life ;  some- 
where close  upon  forty-five.  Good  cheer  and  a  good  temper 
both  tell  well  upon  him.  The  first  has  given  him  a  comfortable 
full  figure,  and  the  latter  certain  easy,  contemplative  habits, 
that  incline  him  to  be  lazy  and  philosophical.  He  has  the  sub- 
stantial planter  look  that  belongs  to  a  gentleman  who  lives  on 
his  estate,  and  is  not  much  vexed  with  the  crosses  of  life. 

I  think  he  prides  himself  on  his  personal  appearance,  for  he 
has  a  handsome  face,  with  a  dark  blue  eye,  and  a  high  forehead 
that  is  scantily  embellished  with  some  silver-tipped  locks  that, 
I  observe,  he  cherishes  for  their  rarity ;  besides,  he  is  growing 
manifestly  attentive  to  his  dress,  and  carries  himself  erect,  with 
some  secret  consciousness  that  his  person  is  not  bad.  It  is 
pleasant  to  see  him  when  he  has  ordered  his  horse  for  a  ride 
into  the  neighborhood,  or  across  to  the  court-house.  On  such 
occasions,  he  is  apt  to  make  his  appearance  in  a  coat  of  blue 
broadcloth,  astonishingly  new  and  glossy,  and  with  a  redundant 
supply  of  plaited  ruffle  strutting  through  the  folds  of  a  Marseilles 
waistcoat ;  a  worshipful  finish  is  given  to  this  costume  by  a 
large  straw  hat,  lined  with  green  silk.  There  is  a  magisterial 
fulness  in  his  garments  that  betokens  condition  in  the  world, 
and  a  heavy  bunch  of  seals,  suspended  by  a  chain  of  gold, 
jingles  as  he  moves,  pronouncing  him  a  man  of  superfluities. 

It  is  considered  rather  extraordinary  that  he  has  never  set 
up  for  Congress ;  but  the  truth  is,  he  is  an  unambitious  man, 
and  has  a  great  dislike  to  currying  favor — as  he  calls  it.  And, 
besides,  he  is  thoroughly  convinced  that  there  will  always  be 
men  enough  in  Virginia,  willing  to  serve  the  people,  and  there- 
fore does  not  see  why  he  should  trouble  his  head  about  it. 
Some  years  ago,  however,  there  was  really  an  impression  that 
he  meant  to  come  out.  By  some  sudden  whim,  he  took  it  into 
his  head  to  visit  Washington  during  the  session  of  Congress, 
and  returned,  after  a  fortnight,  very  seriously  distempered  with 
politics.  He  told  curious  anecdotes  of  certain  secret  intrigues 
which  had  been  discovered  in  the  affairs  of  the  capital,  gave  a 
pretty  clear  insight  into  the  views  of  some  deep-laid  combina- 
tions, and  became,  all  at  once,  painfully  florid  in  his  discourse, 
and  dogmatical  to  a  degree  that  made  his  wife  stare.  Fortu- 
nately, this  orgasm  soon  subsided,  and  Frank  relapsed  into  an 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  1*79 

indolent  gentleman  of  the  opposition ;  but  it  had  the  effect  to 
give  a  much  more  decided  cast  to  his  studies,  for  he  forthwith 
discarded  the  AVhig  and  took  to  the  Enquirer,  like  a  man  who 
was  not  to  be  disturbed  by  doubts ;  and  as  it  was  morally  im- 
possible to  believe  what  was  written  on  both  sides,  to  prevent 
his  mind  from  being  abused,  he,  from  this  time  forward,  gave 
an  implicit  assent  to  all  the  facts  that  set  against  Mr.  Adams. 
The  consequence  of  this  straightforward  and  confiding 'deport- 
ment was  an  unsolicited  and  complimentary  notice  of  him  by 
the  executive  of  the  state.  He  was  put  into  the  commission 
of  the  peace,  and,  having  thus  become  a  public  man  against  his 
will,  his  opinions  were  observed  to  undergo  some  essential 
changes.  He  now  thinks  that  a  good  citizen  ought  neither  to 
solicit  nor  decline  office  ;  that  the  magistracy  of  Virginia  is  the 
sturdiest  pillar  that  supports  the  fabric  of  the  constitution;  and 
that  the  people,  "though  in  their  opinions  they  may  be  mis- 
taken, in  their  sentiments  they  are  never  wrong" — with  some 
other  such  dogmas,  that,  a  few  years  ago,  he  did  not  hold  in 
very  good  repute.  In  this  temper,  he  lias,  of  late,  embarked 
upon  the  mill-pond  of  county  affairs,  and,  notwithstanding  his 
amiable  and  respectful  republicanism,  I  am  told  he  keeps  the 
as  if  he  commanded  a  garrison,  and  administers  justice 
cadi 

He  lias  some  claim  to  supremacy  in  this  last  department; 
for,  during  three  years  of  his  life,  he  smoked  cigars  in  a  lawyer's 
office  at  liichniond;  sometimes  looked  into  Blackstone  and  the 
Ke\  ised  Code;  was  a  member  of  a  debating  society  that  ate 
oysters  once  a  week  during  the  winter;  and  wore  six  cravats 
,  pair  of  yellow-topped  boots  as  a  blood  of  the  metropolis. 
Having  in  this  way  qualified  himself  for  the  pursuits  of  agricul- 
he  came  to  his  estate  a  very  model  of  landed  gentlemen. 
Skice  that  time,  his  avocations  have  had  a  certain  literary  tinc- 
ture ;  for,  having  settled  himself  down  as  a  married  man,  and 
got  rid  of  his  superfluous  foppery,  he  rambled  with  wonderful 
as.-idiiity  through  a  wilderness  of  romances,  poems,  and  disser- 
tations, which  are  now  collected  in  his  library,  and,  with  their 
battered  blue  covers,  present  a  lively  type  of  an  army  of  conti- 
nentals at  the  close  of  the  war,  or  an  hospital  of  veteran  invalids. 
These  have  all,  at  last,  given  way  to  the  newspapers— a  miscel- 
laneous study  very  enticing  to  gentlemen  in  the  country— that 
have  rendered  Meriwcthcr  a  most  discomfiting  antagonist  in  the 
way  of  dates  and  names. 

He  has  great  suavity  of  manners,  and  a  genuine  benevolence 


180  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

of  disposition  that  makes  him  fond  of  having  his  friends  about 
him ;  and  it  is  particularly  gratifying  to  him  to  pick  up  any 
genteel  stranger  within  the  purlieus  of  Swallow  Barn  and  put 
him  to  the  proof  of  a  week's  hospitality,  if  it  be  only  for  the 
pleasure  of  exercising  his  rhetoric  upon  him.  He  is  a  kind  mas- 
ter, and  considerate  toward  his  dependants,  for  which  reason, 
although  he  owns  many  slaves,  they  hold  him  in  profound  rev- 
erence, and  are  very  happy  under  his  dominion.  All  these 
circumstances  make  Swallow  Barn  a  very  agreeable  place,  and 
it  is,  accordingly,  frequented  by  an  extensive  range  of  his  ac- 
quaintances. 

There  is  one  quality  in  Frank  that  stands  above  the  rest. 
He  is  a  thoroughbred  Virginian,  and,  consequently,  does  not 
travel  much  from  home,  except  to  make  an  excursion  to  Rich- 
mond, which  he  considers  emphatically  as  the  center  of  civili- 
zation. Now  and  then  he  has  gone  beyond  the  mountain,  but 
the  upper  country  is  not  much  to  his  taste,  and,  in  his  estima- 
tion, only  to  be  resorted  to  when  the  fever  makes  it  imprudent 
to  remain  upon  the  tide.  He  thinks  lightly  of  the  mercantile 
interest,  and,  in  fact,  undervalues  the  manners  of  the  cities 
generally;  he  believes  that  their  inhabitants  are  all  hollow- 
hearted  and  insincere,  and  altogether  wanting  in  that  substan- 
tial intelligence  and  honesty  that  he  affirms  to  be  characteristic 
of  the  country.  He  is  a  great  admirer  of  the  genius  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  is  frequent  in  his  commendation  of  a  toast  in  which 
the  state  is  compared  to  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi ;  indeed,  it 
is  a  familiar  thing  with  him  to  speak  of  the  aristocracy  of  talent 
as  only  inferior  to  that  of  the  landed  interest — the  idea  of  a 
freeholder  inferring  to  his  mind  a  certain  constitutional  pre- 
eminence in  all  the  virtues  of  citizenship,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  solitary  elevation  of  a  country  gentleman,  well  to  do  in 
the  world,  begets  some  magnificent  notions.  He  becomes  as 
infallible  as  the  Pope ;  gradually  acquires  a  habit  of  making 
long  speeches ;  is  apt  to  be  impatient  of  contradiction,  and  is 
always  very  touchy  on  the  point  of  honor.  There  is  nothing 
more  conclusive  than  a  rich  man's  logic  anywhere,  but  in  the 
country,  amongst  his  dependants,  it  flows  with  the  smooth  and 
unresisted  course  of  a  gentle  stream,  irrigating  a  verdant  mea- 
dow, and  depositing  its  mud  in  fertilizing  luxuriance.  Meri- 
wether's  sayings,  about  Swallow  Barn,  import  absolute  verity 
— but  I  have  discovered  that  they  are  not  so  current  out  of  his 
jurisdiction.  Indeed,  every  now  and  then,  we  have  some  ob- 
stinate discussions  when  any  of  the  neighboring  potentates,  who 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  181 

stand  in  the  same  sphere  with  Frank,  come  to  the  house;  for 
these  worthies  have  opinions  .of  their  own,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  dogged  than  the  conflict  between  them.  They  sometimes 
fire  away  at  each  other  with  a  most  amiable  and  unconvincible 
hardihood  for  a  whole  evening,  bandying  interjections,  and  mak- 
ing bows,  and  saying  shrewd  things  with  all  the  courtesy  imagin- 
able; but  for  unextinguishable  pertinacity  in  argument,  and 
utter  impregnability  of  belief,  there  is  no  disputant  like  your 
country  gentleman  who  reads  the  newspapers.  When  one  of 
these  discussions  fairly  gets  under  weigh,  it  never  comes  to  an 
anchor  again  of  its  own  accord — it  is  either  blown  out  so  far  to 
sea  as  to  be  given  up  for  lost,  or  puts  into  port  in  distress  for 
want  of  documents — or  is  upset  by  a  call  for  the  boot-jack  and 
slippers — which  is  something  like  the  previous  question  in  Con- 
gress. 

It'  my  worthy  cousin  be  somewhat  over-argumentative  as  a 
politician,  he  restores  the  equilibrium  of  his  character  by  a  con- 
si«lerate  coolness  in  religious  matters.  He  piques  himself  upon 
a  high-churchman,  but  he  is  only  a  rare  frequenter  of 
places  of  worship,  and  very  seldom  permits  himself  to  get  into 
a  dispute  upon  points  of  faith.  If  Mr.  Chub,  the  Presbyterian 
tutor  in  the  family,  ever  succeeds  in  drawing  him  into  this 
field,  as  he  occasionally  has  the  address  to  do,  Meriwether  is  sure 
to  fly  the  course.  He  gets  puzzled  with  Scripture  names,  and 
makes  some  odd  mistakes  between  Peter  and  Paul,  and  then, 
generally,  turns  the  parson  over  to  his  wife,  who,  he  says,  has 
an  a-t'tiii-hii:--  memory. 


THE    ItYLNO    CHILD.— HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 

Mother,  I'm  tired,  and  I  would  fain  be  sleeping; 

Let  me  repose  upon  thy  bosom  seek : 
But  promise  me  that  thou  wilt  leave  off  weeping, 

Because  thy  tears  fall  hot  upon  my  cheek. 
Here  it  is  cold  ;  the  tempest  ravcth  madly ; 

But  in  my  dreams  all  is  so  wondrous  bright ; 
I  see  the  angel  children  smiling  gladly, 

When  from  my  weary  eyes  I  shut  out  light. 

Mother,  one  stands  beside  me  now  !  and,  listen! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  the  music's  sweet  accord? 
See  how  his  white  wings  beautifully  glisten! 

Surely,  those  winga  were  given  him  by  our  Lord 


182  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Green,  gold,  and  red  are  floating  all  around  me ; 

They  are  the  flowers  the  angel  scattereth. 
Shall  I  have  also  wings  whilst  life  has  bound  me  ? 

Or,  mother,  are  they  given  alone  in  death  ? 

"Why dost  thou  clasp  me  as  if  I  were  going? 

"Why  dost  thou  press  thy  cheek  thus  unto  mine  ? 
Thy  cheek  is  hot,  and  yet  thy  tears  are  flowing : 

I  will,  dear  mother,  will  be  always  thine ! 
Do  not  thus  sigh — it  marreth  my  reposing ; 

And  if  thou  weep,  then  I  must  weep  with  thee ! 
0,  I  am  tired — my  weary  eyes  are  closing ; 

Look,  mother,  look  !  the  angel  kisseth  me  ! 


THE  APOLLO   BELYIDERE—  HEITRY  THEODORE  TUCKEBMAN. 

It  was  a  day  of  festival  in  Rome, 
And  to  the  splendid  temple  of  her  saint, 
Many  a  brilliant  equipage  swept  on ; 
Brave  cavaliers  reined  their  impetuous  steeds, 
"While  dark-robed  priests  and  bright-e}'ed  peasants  strolled, 
Through  groups  of  citizens  in  gay  attire. 
The  suppliant  moan  of  the  blind  mendicant, 
Blent  with  the  huckster's  cry,  the  urchin's  shout, 
The  clash  of  harness,  and  the  festive  cheer. 
Beneath  the  colonnade  ranged  the  Swiss  guards, 
With  polished  halberds — an  anomaly, 
Of  mountain  lineage,  and  yet  hirelings  ! 
In  the  midst  rose  the  majestic  obelisk; 
Quarried  in  Egypt,  centuries  by-gone  ; 
And,  on  either  side,  gushed  up  refreshingly 
The  lofty  fountains,  flashing  in  the  sun, 
And  breathing,  o'er  the  din,  a  whisper  soft, 
Yet  finely  musical  as  childhood's  laugh. 
Here  a  stranger  stood  in  mute  observance ; 
There  an  artist  leaned,  and  pleased  his  eye 
"With  all  the  features  of  the  shifting  scene, 
Striving  to  catch  its  varying  light  and  shade — 
The  mingled-  tints  of  brilliancy  and  gloom. 
Through  the  dense  crowd  a  lovely  maiden  pressed 
With  a  calm  brow,  an  eagerness  of  air, 
And  an  eye  exultant  with  high  purpose. 
The  idle  courtier  checked  his  ready  jest, 
And  backward  stepped  in  reverence,  as  she  passed ; 
The  friar  turned  and  blessed  her  fervently, 
Reading  the  joy  in  her  deep  look  of  love, 
That  visits  pilgrims  when  their  shrine  is  won. 
To  the  rich  chambers  of  the  Vatican 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  133 

She  hurried  thoughtfully,  nor  turned  to  muse 

Upon  the  many  glories  clustered  there. 

There  are  rooms  whose  walls  are  radiant  still 

"\Vitli  the  creations  of  the  early  dead — 

Raphael,  the  gifted  and  the  beautiful ; 

Fit  places  for  those  sweet  imaginings 

And  spirit-stirring  dreams.     She  entered  not. 

Gems  of  rare  hues  and  cunning  workmanship, 

Ancient  sarcophagi,  heroic  forms, 

Busts  of  the  mighty  conquerors  of  time, 

Stirred  not  a  pulse  in  that  fond  maiden's  heart ; 

She  staid  not  to  peruse  the  classic  face 

Of  young  Augustus,  nor  lingered  to  discern 

Benignity  in  Trajan's  countenance  ; 

But  sped,  with  fawn-like  and  familiar  step, 

On  to  the  threshold  of  a  cabinet ; 

And  then  her  eye  grew  brighter,  and  a  flush 

Suffused  her  cheek,  as,  awe-subdued,  she  paused, 

And,  throwing  back  the  ringlets  from  her  brow. 

"\Vith  a  light  bound  and  rapturous  murmur,  stood 

Before  the  statue  of  the  Grecian  god: 

"  They  tell  me  thou  art  stone, 

Stern,  passionless,  and  chill, 
Dead  to  the  glow  of  noble  thought, 

And  feeling's  holy  thrill ; 
They  deem  theo  but  a  marble  god, 

The  paragon  of  art, 
A  thing  to  charm  the  sage's  eye, 

But  not  to  win  the  heart. 

"  Vain  as  their  own  light  vows, 

And  soulless  as  their  gaze, 
The  thought  of  quenching  my  deep  love 

By  such  ignoble  praise  1 
I  know  that  through  thy  parted  lips 

Language  disdains  to  roll, 
While  on  them  rest  so  gloriously 

The  beamings  of  the  soul. 

"  I  dreamed,  but  yesternight, 

That,  gazing,  e'en  as  now, 
Rapt  in  a  wild,  admiring  joy, 

On  thy  majestic  brow — 
That  thy  strong  arm  was  round  mo  flung, 

And  drew  me  to  thy  side, 
"While  thy  proud  lip  uncurled  in  love, 

And  hailed  me  as  a  bride. 

"And  then,  methought  we  sped, 

Like  thine  own  arrow*  high, 
Through  fields  of  azure,  orbs  of  light, 

Amid  the  boundless  sky: 


184  THE  LADIES'  EEADER. 

Our  way  seemed  walled  with  radiant  gems, 

As  fell  the  starry  gleams, 
And  the  floating  isles  of  pearly  drops 

Gave  back  their  silver  beams. 

"  Sphere-music,  too,  stole  by 

In  the  fragrant  zephyr's  play, 
And  the  hum  of  worlds  boomed  solemnly 

Across  our  trackless  way : 
Upon  my  cheek  the  wanton  breeze 

Thy  glowing  tresses  flung ; 
Like  loving  tendrils,  round  my  neck, 

A  golden  band  they  clung. 

"  Me  thought  thou  didst  impart 

The  mysteries  of  earth, 
And  whisper  lovingly  the  tale 

Of  thy  celestial  birth ; 
O'er  Poetry's  sublimest  heights 

Exultingly  we  trod; 
Thy  words  were  music — uttering 

The  genius  of  a  god ! 

"  Proud  one  !  'twas  but  a  dream ; 

For  here  again  thou  art, 
Thy  marble  bosom  heeding  not 

My  passion  stricken  heart. 
0,  turn  that  rapturous  look  on  me, 

And  heave  a  single  sigh — 
Give  but  a  glance,  breathe  but  a  tone, 

One  word  were  ecstasy  I 

"  Still  mute  ?     Then  must  I  yield ; 

This  fire  will  scathe  rny  breast; 
This  weary  heart  will  throb  itself 

To  an  eternal  rest. 
Yet  still  my  soul  claims  fellowship 

With  the  exalted  grace, 
The  bright  and  thrilling  earnestness, 

The  godlike  in  thy  face. 

"  Thou  wilt  relent  at  last, 

And  turn  thy  love-lit  eye 
In  pity  on  me,  noble  one ! 

To  bless  me  ere  I  die. 
And  now,  farewell,  my  vine-clad  home, 

Farewell,  immortal  youth! 
Let  me  behold  thee  when  Love  calls 

The  martyr  to  her  truth!" 


T1IH   LADIES'  READER  185 


A  VISION  OF  THE  VATICAN-FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE. 

In  the  great  palace  halls,  where  dwell  the  gods 
I  heard  a  voice  filling  the  vaulted  roof; 
The  heart  that  uttered  it  seenVd  sorrow  proof, 

And,  clarion-like,  it  might  have  made  the  clods 
Of  the  dead  valley  start  to  sudden  life, 
With  such  a  vigor  and  a  joy  'twas  rife. 

And,  coming  towards  me,  lo !  a  woman  past, 
Her  face  was  shining  as  the  morning  bright, 
And  her  feet  fell  in  steps  so  strong  and  light, 

I  scarce  could  tell  if  she  trode  slow  or  fast : 

She  seem'd  instinct  with  beauty  and  with  power, 
And  what  she  sang  dwells  with  me  to  this  hour. 

"  Transfigur'd  from  the  gods'  abode  I  come, 
I  have  been  tarrying  in  their  awful  home ; 
Stand  from  my  path,  and  give  me  passage  free, 
For  yet  I  breathe  of  their  divinity. 
Jove  have  I  knelt  to,  solemn  and  serene, 
And  stately  Here,  heaven's  transcendant  queen ; 
Apollo's  light  is  on  my  brow,  and  fleet, 
As  silver-sandall'd  Dian's  are  my  feet ; 
Graciously  smiling,  heavenly  Aphrodite 
Hath  filled  my  senses  with  a  vague  delight ;  ' 
And  Pallas,  steadfastly  beholding  me, 
Hath  sent  me  forth  in  wisdom  to  be  free." 

When  at  the  portal,  smiling  she  did  turn, 

And,  looking  back  thro'  the  vast  halls  profound, 
Re-echoing  with  her  song's  triumphant  sound, 

She  bow'd  her  head,  and  said. — "I  shall  return!1' 
Then  raised  her  face,  all  radiant  with  delight, 
And  vanished,  like  a  vision,  from  my  sight. 


HAGAK  L\  TI1H  WI1.D1-KNKSS.-N.  P.  WILLIS. 

The  morning  broke.     Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.     Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dyes ;  and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  everything  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 


186  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;  and  the  light 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.     The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odors  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  singing  as  if  life 
"Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;  but  oh !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.     Her  lips  were  press'd 
Till  the  blood  started ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swell'd  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.     Her  dark  ey& 
"Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
"Which,  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back, 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasp'd  in  her  own,  and  his  round  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  train'd  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
Sandall'd  for  journeying.     He  had  look'd  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  dimpled  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straighten'd  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swell'd, 
Had  they  but  match'd  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch,  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily  ?    His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  God, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there ;  and,  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
Oh  I  man  may  bear  with  suffering ;  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike,  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality ;  but  tear 
One  chord  affection  clings  to — part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love — 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand 
In  silent  blessing  on  the  fair-hair'd  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

Should  Hagar  weep  ?   May  slighted  woman  turn 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightty  to  her  leaning  trust  again  ? 
0  no !  by  all  her  loveliness — by  all 


THE  LADIES'  READER. 

That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no ! 
Make  her  a  slave ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies ;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  paiii ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But  oh !  estrange  her  once — it  boots  not  how — 
By  wrong  or  silence — any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness — 
And  there  is  not  a  feeling  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow — 
Her  press'd  lip  arch'd,  and  her  clear  eye  undimm'd 
As  if  it  were  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  press'd 
His  hand  till  it  was  pain'd ;  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  passed,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  iho  hills  were  in  the  shade, 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
1 1  v, -as  an  hour  of  rest !  but  Hagar  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  open'd  his  parch'd  lips 
For  water ;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 
She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky, — 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him  ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 
"Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 
"U'hy  <  loil  di-iiicil  him  water  in  the  wild. 
She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.     She  lifted  him, 
And  bore  him  further  on,  and  laid  his  head 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub ; 
And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 
And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 
Till  ho  should  die;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourn'd: 

"  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die ;  I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
I  low  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye! 

And  could  I  see  theo  die  ? 


188  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

"I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers : 

Or  wiling  the  soft  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
.  Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

"  Oh  no !  and  when  I  watch'd  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  far  Nile, 
How  pray'd  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee ! 

"And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee! 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press ; 

And  oh,  my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillow'd  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair!" 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laugh'd 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisp'd 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  ploshing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


THE  BURNT  AIGLE-MEs.  s.  c.  HALL. 

ONE  of  the  most  amusing  and  acute  persons  I  remember — 
and  in  my  very  early  days  I  knew  him  well — was  a  white- 
headed,  lame  old  man,  known  in  the  neighborhood  of  Killag- 
gin,  by  the  name  of  Burnt  Eagle,  or,  as  the  Irish  peasants 
called  him,  "Burnt  Aigle."  His  descent  proclaimed  him  an 
Irishman,  but  some  of  his  habits  were  not  characteristic  of 
the  country,  for  he  understood  the  value  of  money,  and  that 
which  makes  money — Time.  He  certainly  was  not  of  the 
neighborhood  in  which  he  resided,  for  he  had  no  "  people,"  no 
uncles,  aunts,  or  cousins.  What  his  real  name  was  I  never 
heard ;  but  I  remember  him  since  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  just 
old  enough  to  be  placed  by  my  nurse  on  the  back  of  Burnt 
Eagle's  donkey.  At  that  time  he  lived  in  a  neat,  pretty  little 
cottage,  about  a  mile  from  our  house  :  it  contained  two  rooms; 
they  were  not  only  clean  but  well  furnished ;  that  is  to  say, 
Avell  furnished  for  an  Irish  cottage. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  189 

The  little  patch  of  ground  this  industrious  old  man  had,  after 
incredible  labor,  succeeded  in  forming  over  the  coat  of  sward 
that  covered  the  sand,  was  in  front  of  Crab  Hall.  The  donkey 
had  done  his  best  to  assist  a  master  who  had  never  given  him 
au  unjust  blow :  the  fence  was  formed  round  the  little  inclos- 
ure  of  gray  granite,  which  some  convulsion  of  nature  had  strewed 
abundantly  on  the  strand;  these  stones  the  donkey  drew  up 
when  his  day's  work  was  ended,  three  or  four  at  a  time.  Even 
this  inclosure  was  perfected,  and  a  very  neat^ate  of  basket-work 
with  a  latch  outside  and  a  bolt  in,  hung  opposite  the  cottage 
door,  before  Burnt  Eagle  had  laid  down  either  the  earth  or  ma- 
nure on  his  plot  of  ground. 

"  Why,  thin,  Burnt  Aigle,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Radford,  the  net- 
maker's  wife,  as,  followed  by  seven  lazy,  dirty,  healthy  children, 
-In'  strolled  over  the  sand-hills  one  evening  to  see  what  the  poor 
bocher*  was  doing  at  the  place,  "  that  was  good  enough  for  Cor- 
ney,  the  crab-catcher,  without  alteration  dacent  man !  for  twenty 
years.  Why,  thin,  Burnt  Aigle,  dear,  what  are  ye  slaving  and 
fencin'at?" 

u  Why,  I  thought  I  told  ye,  Mrs.  Radford,  when  I  taught  ye 

the  tight  stitch  for  a  shrimp-net,  that  I  meant  to  make  a  garden 

.  I  understand  flowers,  and  the  gentry's  ready  to  buy  them  ; 

and  sure,  when  once  the  flowers  are  set,  they'll  grow  of  them- 

-,  while  I'm  doing  something  else.   Is'nt  it  a  beautiful  thing 

to  think  of  that !  how  the  Lord  helps  us  to  a  great  deal,  i£  we 

only  do  a  little  toward  it !" 

"H.»w  do  you  make  that  out?"  inquired  the  net-maker. 

1  limit  K;i'/lr  pulled  a  seed-pod  from  a  tuft  of  beautiful  sea- 
pink.  "All  that's  wanted  of  us,"  he  said,  "is  to  put  such  as 
this  iu  the  earth  at  first,  and  doesn't  God's  goodness  do  all  the 

"•  I  Jut  it  would  bo  'time  enough,'  sure,  to  make  the  fence 
whin  the  ground  was  rcad\ ,"  said  his  neighbor,  reverting  to  the 
iir-t  part  of  h«-r  conversation. 

"  And  have  all  the  neighbors'  pigs  right  through  it  the  next 
morning?"  retorted  the  old  man  laughing;  " no,  no,  that's  not 
my  way,  Mr-.  Kadford." 

ur  and  ai-y  "-ocs  f:ir  in  a  day,  Masther  Aigle,"  said  the 
p,  lounging  against  the  fence,  and  taking  her  pipe  out  of 
her  pocket. 

"  I )"  you  want  a  coal  for  your  pipe,  ma'am?"  inquired  Burnt 
Aigle. 

*  A.  lamo  man. 


190  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

"No,  I  thank  ye  kindly ;  its  not  out  I  see,"  she  replied,  stir- 
ring it  up  with  a  bit  of  stick  previous  to  commencing  the  smo- 
king with  which  she  solaced  her  laziness. 

"That's  a  bad  plan,"  observed  our  friend,  who  continued  his 
labor  as  diligently  as  if  the  sun  was  rising  instead  of  setting. 

"What  is,  Aigle  dear?" 

"  Keeping  the  pipe  a-light  in  yer  pocket,  ma'am ;  it  might 
chance  to  burn  ye,  and  its  sure  to  waste  the  tobacco." 

"  Augh !"  exclaimed  the  wife,  "  what  long  heads  some  peo- 
ple have  !  God  grant  we  may  never  want  the  bit  o'  tobacco. 
Sure  it  would  be  hard  if  we  did,  we're  bad  off  enough  without 
that." 

"  But  if  ye  did,  ye  know,  ma'am,  ye'd  be  sorry  ye  wasted  it ; 
wouldn't  ye  ?" 

"Och,  Aigle,  dear,  the  poverty  is  bad  enough  when  it  comes, 
not  to  be  looking  out  for  it." 

"  If  you  expected  an  inimy  to  come  and  burn  your  house," 
("Lord  defend  us  !"  ejaculated  the  woman),  "what  would  you 
do?" 

"  Is  it,  what  would  I  do  ?  that's  a  quare  question.  I'd  pre- 
vint  him  to  be  sure." 

"  And  thafs  what  I  want  to  do  with  the  poverty,"  he  an- 
swered, sticking  his  spade  firmly  into  the  earth ;  and,  leaning  on 
it  with  folded  arms,  he  rested  for  a  moment  on  his  perfect  limb, 
and  looked  earnestly  in  her  face.  "  Ye  see  every  one  on  the 
sod — green  though  it  is,  God  bless  it — is  some  how  or  other 
born  to  some  sort  of  poverty.  Now,  the  thing  is  to  go  past  it, 
or  undermine  it,  or  get  rid  of  it,  or  prevent  it." 

"Ah,  thin,  how?"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 

"  By  forethought,  prudence ;  never  to  let  a  farthing's  worth 
go  to  waste,  or  spend  a  penny  if  we  can  do  with  a  halfpenny. 
Time  makes  the  most  of  us — we  ought  to  make  the  most  of 
him ;  so  I'll  go  on  with  my  work,  ma'am,  if  you  please ;  I  can 
work  and  talk  at  the  same  time." 

Mrs.  Radford  looked  a  little  affronted ;  but  she  thought  bet- 
ter of  it,  and  repeated  her  favorite  maxim,  "  Fair  and  aisy  goes 
far  in  a  day." 

"  So  it  does  ma'am ;  nothing  like  it ;  its  wonderful  what  a 
dale  can  be  got  on  with  by  it  keeping  on,  on,  and  on,  always  at 
something.  When  I'm  tired  at  the  baskets,  I  take,  a  turn  at  the 
tubs ;  and  when  I  am  wearied  with  them,  I  tie  up  the  heath — 
and  sweet  it  is,  sure  enough ;  it  makes  one  envy  the  bees  to 
smell  the  heather !  And  when  I've  had  enough  of  that,  I  get 


THE  LADIES'  READER  191 

on  with  the  garden,  or  knock  bits  of  furniture  out  of  the  tim- 
ber the  sea  drifts  up  after  those  terrible  storms." 

"  We  burn  that,"  said  Mrs.  Radford. 

"  There's  plenty  of  turf  and  furze  to  be  had  for  the  cutting ; 
it's  a  sin,  when  there's  so  much  furniture  wanting,  to  burn  any 
timber — barring  chips,"  replied  Eagle. 

"Bedad,  I  don't  know  what  ill  luck  sea-timber  might  bring," 
said  the  woman. 

"  Augh !  augh  !  the  worst  luck  that  ever  came  into  a  house 
is  idleness,  except,  may  be  extravagance." 

••  Well,  thin,  Aigle  dear!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Radford,  "what's 
come  to  ye  to  talk  of  extravagance  ?  What  in  the  world  have 
poor  crathurs  like  us  to  be  extravagant  with  ?" 

••  Vi-r  time,"  replied  Burnt  Eagle  with  particular  emphasis; 
yer  tinu-." 

••  All,  thin,  man,  sure  it's  '  time  enough'  for  us  to  be  thinking 
of  that  when  we  can  get  anything  for  it." 

"  Make  anything  of  it,  ye  mean,  ma'am :  the  only  work  it  will 
ever  do  of  itself,  if  it's  let  alone,  will  be  destruction." 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE— AXNA  C.  LYNCH. 

There  are  countless  fields  the  green  earth  o'er, 

AVI  it-re  the  verdant  turf  has  been  dyed  with  gore; 

Where  hostile  ranks  in  their  grim  array, 

With  the  battle's  smoke  have  obscured  the  day; 

Where  hate  was  stamped  on  each  rigid  face, 

As  foe  met  foe  in  the  death  embrace ; 

When;  the  groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying  rose 

Till  the  heart  of  the  listener  witn  horror  froze, 

And  the  wide  expanse  of  crimsoned  plain 

"Was  piled  with  heaps  of  uncounted  slain ; 

But  a  fiercer  combat,  a  deadlier  strife, 

-.1  which  is  waged  in  the  Battle  of  Life. 
The  hero  that  wars  on  the  tented  field, 
With  his  shining  sword  and  burnished  shield, 

not  alone  with  his  faithful  brand: 
Friends  and  comrades  around  him  stand ; 
The  trumpets  sound  and  the  war  steeds  neigh, 
To  join  in  the  shock  of  the  coming  fray; 
And  ho  Hies  to  the  onset,  he  charges  the  foe, 
Whore  the  bayonets  gleam  and  the  red  tides  flow; 
And  he  bears  his  part  in  that  conflict  dire, 
With  an  arm  all  nerve  and  a  heart  all  tire — 


192  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

What  though  he  fall  ?    At  the  battle's  close, 
In  the  flush  of  the  victory  won,  ho  goes 
"With  martial  music  and  waving  plume, 
From  a  field  of  fame — to  a  laurelled  tomb  ! 
But  the  hero  that  wars  in  the  Battle  of  Life, 
Must  stand  alone  in  the  fearful  strife ; 
Alone  in  his  weakness  or  strength  must  go, 
Hero  or  coward  to  meet  the  foe: 
He  may  not  fly ;  on  that  fated  field 
He  must  win  or  lose,  he  must  conquer  or  yield. 

"Warrior — who  CGin'st  to  this  battle  now, 
With  a  careless  step  and  a  thoughtless  brow, 
As  if  the  day  were  already  won — 
Pause,  and  gird  all  thy  armor  on ! 
Dost  thou  bring  with  thee  hither  a  dauntless  will — 
An  ardent  soul  that  no  fear  can  chill — 
Thy  shield  of  faith  hast  thou  tried  and  proved — 
Canst  thou  say  to  the  mountain,  "Be  thou  removed? — 
In  thy  hand  does  the  sword  of  Truth  flame  bright — 
Is  thy  banner  inscribed — "For  God  and  the  Right?" — 
In  the  might  of  prayer  dost  thou  wrestle  and  plead? 
Never  had  warrior  greater  need ! — 
Unseen  foes  in  thy  pathway  hide, 
Thou  art  encompassed  on  every  side ; 
There  Pleasure  waits  with  her  siren  train, 
Her  poison  flowers  and  her  hidden  chain ; 
Flattery  courts  with  her  hollow  smiles ; 
Passion  with  silvery  tone  beguiles ; 
Love  and  Friendship  their  charmed  spells  weave : 
Trust  not  too  deeply — they  may  deceive ! 
Hope  with  her  Dead  Sea  fruits  is  there ; 
Sin  is  spreading  her  gilded  snare ; 
Disease  with  a  ruthless  hand  would  smite, 
And  Care  spread  o'er  thee  her  withering  blight ; 
Hate  and  Envy,  with  visage  black, 
And  the  serpent  Slander,  are  on  thy  track ; 
Falsehood  and  Guilt,  Remorse  and  Pride, 
Doubt  and  Despair,  in  thy  pathway  glide  ; 
Haggard  Want,  in  her  demon  joy, 
Waits  to  degrade  thee,  and  then  destroy ; 
And  Death,  the  insatiate,  is  hovering  near 
To  snatch  from  thy  grasp  all  thou  holdest  dear ! 

In  war  with  these  phantoms  that  gird  thee  round, 
No  limbs  dissevered  may  strew  the  ground : 
No  blood  may  flow,  and  no  mortal  ear 
The  groans  of  the  wounded  heart  may  hear, 
As  it  struggles  and  writhes  in  their  dread  control, 
As  the  iron  enters  the  riven  soul. 
But  the  youthful  form  grows  wasted  and  weak, 
And  sunken  and  wan  is  the  rounded  cheek ; 
The  brow  is  furrowed,  but  not  with  years ; 
The  eye  is  dimmed  with  its  secret  tears ; 


THE   LADIES'  READER. 

And  streak'd  with  white  is  the  raven  hair; 
These  are  the  tokens  of  conflict  there. 
The  Battle  is  ended ; — the  hero  goes 
Worn  and  scarred,  to  his  last  repose. 
lie  has  won  the  day — he  has  conquered  doom; 
-  sunk,  unknown,  to  his  nameless  tomb ; 
For  the  victor's  glory,  no  voice  may  plead ; 
Fame  has  no  echo,  and  earth  no  meed ; — 
But  the  guardian  angels  are  hovering  near  ; 
They  have  watched  unseen  o'er  the  conflict  here. 
They  bear  him  now  on  their  wings  away, 
To  a  realm  of  peace,  to  a  cloudless  day. — 
Ended  now  is  earthly  strife ; 
And  his  brow  is  crowned  with  the  Crown  of  Life! 


193 


THK  MONTH  OF  AUGUST-WiLLiAM  HOWITT. 

Thou  visitest  the  earth,  and  waterest  it;  thou  greatly  enrichest  it  with 
Hie  river  of  God,  which  is  full  of  water;  thou  preparest  them  corn  when 
thou  hast  so  provided  for  it 

Thou  waterest  the  ridges  thereof  abundantly ;  thou  settlest  the  furrows 
thereof;  thou  makest  it  soft  with  showers;  thou  blessest  the  spring 
thereof. 

Thou  crownest  the  year  with  thy  goodness,  and  tky  paths  drop  fatness. 

The  drop  upon  the  pastures  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  little  hills  rejoice 
on  every  side. 

The  pastures  are  clothed  with  flocks,  and  the  valleys  also  are  covered 
over  with  corn ;  they  shout  for  joy ;  they  also  sing. — Psalm  xlv.,  9-13. 

IIo\v  beautiful  ;irc  the  words  of  the  inspired  poet,  read  in 
this  month  of  harvests,  nearly  three  thousand  years  after  they 
For  nearly  three  thousand  years  since  the  royal 
minstrel  looked  over  the  plains  of  Judea  covered  with  the  bounty 
of  God,  and  broke  forth  into  his  magnificent  hymn  of  praise,  has 
the  earth  rolled  on  in  her  course,  and  the  hand  of  God  has  blessed 
her  and  all  her  children  with  seed  time  and  harvest,  with  joy  and 
abundance.     The  very  steadfastness  of  the  Almighty's  liberal- 
ity, flowing  like  a  mighty  ocean  through  the  infinite  vast  of  the 
universe,  makes  his  creatures  forget  to  wonder  at  its  wondcrful- 
1   true  thank.-giving  for  its  immeasurable  goodness, 
so  surely,  the  seasons  run  on  amid  all 

their  ehan^es  wjj  j,  SU(.],  inimitable  truth,  that  we  take  as  a  mat- 
ter of  coarse  that  which  is  amazing  beyond  all  stretch  of  the 
imagination,  and    good   beyond  the  widest  expansion  of  the 
noblest  human  heart. 
1  :>, 


194  THE  LADIES' READER. 

The  poor  man,  with  his  half  dozen  children,  toils,  and  often 
dies,  under  the  vain  labor  of  winning  bread  for  them.  God  feeds 
his  family  of  countless  myriads  swarming'  over  the  surface  of  all 
his  countless  worlds,  and  none  know  need  but  through  the  fol- 
lies or  the  cruelty  of  their  fellows.  God  pours  his  light  from 
innumerable  suns  on  innumerable  rejoicing  planets ;  he  waters 
them  everywhere  in  the  fitting  moment ;  he  ripens  the  food  of 
globes  and  of  nations,  and  gives  them  fair  weather  to  garner  it ; 
and  from  age  to  age,  amid  his  creatures  of  endless  forms  and 
powers,  in  the  beaut}7,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  magnificence 
of  Nature,  he  seems  to  sing  throughout  creation  the  glorious 
song  of  his  own  divine  joy  in  the  immortality  of  his  youth,  in 
the  omnipotence  of  his  nature,  in  the  eternity  of  his  patience, 
and  the  abounding  boundlessness  of  his  love. 

What  a  family  hangs  on  his  sustaining  arm  !  The  life  and 
souls  of  infinite  ages  and  of  uncounted  worlds!  Let  a  mo- 
ment's failure  of  his  power,  of  his  watchfulness,  or  of  his  will  to 
do  good,  occur,  and  what  a  sweep  of  death  and  annihilation 
through  the  universe !  How  stars  would  reel,  planets  expire, 
and  nations  perish !  But  from  age  to  age  no  such  catastrophe 
occurs,  even  in  the  midst  of  national  crimes,  and  of  atheism 
that  denies  the  hand  that  made  and  feeds  it :  life  springs  with 
a  power  ever  new,  food  springs  up  as  plentifully  to  sustain  it, 
and  sunshine  and  joy  are  poured  over  all  from  the  invisible 
throne  of  God,  as  the  poetry  of  the  existence  he  has  given.  If 
there  come  seasons  of  dearth  or  of  failure,  they  come  but  as 
warnings  to  proud  and  tyrannic  man.  The  potato  is  smitten, 
that  a  nation  may  not  be  oppressed  for  ever ;  and  the  harvest  is 
diminished,  that  the  laws  of  man's  unnatural  avarice  may  be 
rent  asunder.  And  then  again  the  sun  shines,  the  rain  falls, 
and  the  earth  rejoices  in  a  renewed  beauty,  and  in  a  redoubled 
plenty. 

It  is  amid  one  of  these  crises  that  we  at  this  moment  stand, 
and  hail  the  month  of  harvests  with  unmingled  joy.  Never 
did  the  finger  of  God  demonstrate  his  beneficent  will  more  per- 
spicuously than  at  this  moment.  The  nations  have  been  warned 
and  rebuked,  and  again  the  bounty  of  heaven  overflows  the  earth 
in  golden  billows  of  the  ocean  of  abundance.  God  wills  that  all 
the  arts  of  man  to  check  his  bounty,  to  create  scarcity,  to  estab- 
lish dearness,  to  enfeeble  the  hand  of  the  laborer,  and  curse  the 
table  of  the  poor,  shall  be  put  to  shame.  That  his  creatures 
shall  eat  and  be  glad,  whether  corn-dealers  and  speculators  live 
or  die. 


Tlltf    LAI  >IK,<   IlKADHR.  195 

Nations,  therefore,  have  fittingly  rejoiced  m  every  century 
siuee  the  creation  in  the  joyfulness  of  harvest.  It  has  been  a 
time  of  activity  and  of  songs.  Never  was  there  a  generation 
that  had  more  cause  to  put  forth  their  reaping  and  rejoicing 
hands  and  sing  so  heartily  as  ours.  The  coming  month  will 
see  the  1'harnoh  of  monstrous  monopoly,  and  all  his  wretched 
selfish  hosts,  drowned  in  the  Red  Sea  of  abundance.  The  corn 
dealers  will  he  smothered  in  the  showcring-down  heaps  of  their 
own  eommodity;  the  speculator  who  has  so  long  sought  his 
own  fattening  at  the  cost  of  a  nation's  starvation  and  misery, 
shall  tind  that  there  is  a  greater  speculator  in  the  blue  serene 
above  him,  whose  hand  can  whelm  him  in  the  gulf  of  his  own 
•ind  era/e  all  the  chariot  wheels  of  his  cunning.  Praise 
1 — the  <;,i,l  of  harvests — and  to  Him  whose  cattle  are  on 
a  thousand  hills.  Let  us  go  out  and  rejoice  amid  the  sunshine, 
ami  the  wheat  stooping  to  the  sickle,  and  the  barley  to  the 
M-ythe,  and  in  the  certain  assurance  that  the  loaf  never  was 
cheaper  than  it  shall  he  within  the  next  six  months,  never  the 
heart  of  labor  more  strengthened  with  abundance. 

There  is  no  month  more  beautiful  than  August.  It  has  a  se- 
rene splendor  and  maturity  about  it  that  is  delightful.  The  soil 
is  dry,  the  sky  is  bright  and  beautiful,  with  scattered  and  silvery 
cloiuU.  The  foliage  is  full  and  luxuriant — the  grass  fields  mown 
in  June  and  July  are  now  full  of  the  richest  green,  and  cat- 
tle wander  in  finest  condition  through  them,  or  lie  in  groups 
around  worthv  of  a  painter's  hand.  There  is  a  sort  of  second 
spring  in  trees,  the  oak  and  the  elm,  especially,  putting  forth 
new  shoots  of  a  lighter  tint.  The  hedges  put  on  the  same  ver- 
nal looking  hue,  and  the  heather  on  the  moors,  and  sweet  scab- 
,  blue  chicory,  the  large  white  convolvulus,  hawkweeds, 
vsuckles,  and  the  small  blue  campanula,  make  the  fields 
The  nuts,  still  green,  hang  in  prodigal  clusters  on  the  tall 
old  hedges  of  old  woodland  lanes.  Young  frogs  in  thousands 
are  issuing  from  the  waters,  and  traversing  the  roads ;  and  bircls 
having  terminated  their  spring  cares,  are  out  enjoying  their 
families  in  the  sunny  and  plentiful  fields. 


196  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


THE  VIRGIN  MARTYR— MASSINGER  AND  DECKER. 

Angela,  an  angel,  attends  Dorothea  as  a  page. 
ANGELO.     DOROTHEA.      Tlie  time,  Midnight. 

Dor.  My  book  and  taper. 

Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor.  Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I  never 
Was  ravished  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
"Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us :  thy  name  is  Angela, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest; 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest. 

Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady.     I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  -you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 
So  blest  I  hold  mo  in  your  company. 
Therefore,  my  most  loved  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence ; 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still,  then. 
In  golden  letters  down  I'll  set  that  day, 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  words  of  comfort  in  thyself, 
This  little,  pretty  body,  when  I  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy, 
My  se  et-fac'd,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms, 
Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand ; 
And  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 
Methought  was  filled  with  no  wanton  fire, 
But  with  a  holy  flame,-  mounting  since  higher, 
On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

Ang.  Proud  am  I  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Dor.  I  have  offer'd 

Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some, 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father ;  for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence, 
He  that  begot  him  must  do 't  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents ; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 
Know  who  my  mother  was ;  but,  by  yon  palace, 
Fill'd  with  bright  heav'nly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand, 
My  father  is  in  heav'n ;  and,  pretty  mistress 


THE   LADIES'  READER. 

If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand 
No  worse,  than  yet  it  doth,  upon  my  life, 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 
Dor,  A  bless'd  day ! 


197 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE-GEORGE  P.  MORKIB. 

This  book  is  all  that's  left  me  now ! 

Tears  will  unbidden  start — 
With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow, 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  many  generations  past, 

Hero  is  our  family  tree; 
My  mother's  hands  this  Bible  clasp'd ; 

She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah !  well  do  I  remember  those 

"Whose  names  these  records  bear : 
Who  round  the  hearth-stone  used  to  close 

After  the  evening  prayer, 
And  speak  of  what  these  pages  said, 

In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill ! 
Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead, 

Here  are  they  living  still  1 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters  dear; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look, 

Who  lean'd  God's  word  to  hear. 
Her  angel  face — I  see  it  yet  I 

What  thronging  memories  cornel 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  homel 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I've  tried  ; 
Where  all  were  false  I  found  theo  true, 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy  : 
In  teaching  mo  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die. 


198  TIIE   LADIES'  HEADER. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  DUTCH  VILLAGE.-D.  G.  MITCHELL. 

A  HALF-HOUR'S  sail  brought  us  in  sight  of  the  church  spire, 
rising  from  among  the  trees ;  and  soon  appeared  the  chimney- 
tops,  and  finally  the  houses  themselves,  of  the  little  town  of 
Brock — all  prettily  reflected  in  a  clear  side-basin  of  the  canal. 
*  A  town  it  hardly  is ;  but  a  group  of  houses  among  rich  trees, 
where  eight  hundred  neighbors  live,  and  make  things  so  neat, 
that  strangers  come  a  thousand  miles  for  a  look  at  the  won- 
drous nicety.  Passing  by  the  basin  of  smooth  water  that  re- 
flected so  prettily  the  church  and  the  trees,  we  stopped  before 
a  little  inn,  finely  shaded  with  a  beech  trained  into  an  arbor  all 
over  the  front.  A  very,  very  pretty  blue-eyed  Dutch  girl  of 
sixteen,  received  me.  We  could  talk  nothing  together;  but 
there  happened  a  stupid  old  Meinheer  smoking  with  his  wife  at 
the  door,  through  whom  I  explained  my  wants. 

I  saw  by  the  twinkle  in  her  eye  that  she  comprehended.  If 
I  had  spoken  an  hour  it  could  not  have  been  better — my  din- 
ner. There  were  cutlets  white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  wine 
with  cobwebs  of  at  least  a  year's  date  on  the  bottle,  and  the 
nicest  of  Dutch  cheese,  and  strawberries,  and  profusion  of  deli- 
cious cream. 

The  blue-eyed  girl  had  stolen  out  to  put  on  another  dress, 
while  I  was  busy  with  the  first  cutlet ;  and  she  wore  one  of  the 
prettiest  little  handkerchiefs  imaginable  on  her  shoulders,  and 
she  glided  about  the  table  so  noiselessly,  so  charmingly,  and 
arranged  the  dishes  so  neatly,  and  put  so  heaping  a  plateful  of 
strawberries  before  me,  that — confound  me !  I  should  have 
kept  by  the  dinner-table  until  night,  if  the  old  lady  had  not  put 
her  head  in  the  door,  to  say — there  was  a  person  without  who 
would  guide  me  through  the  village. 

"  And  who  is  to  be  my  guide  ?"  said  I,  as  well  as  I  could 
say  it. 

The  old  lady  pointed  opposite.  I  thought  she  misunderstood 
me,  and  asked  her  again. 

She  pointed  the  same  way — it  was  a  stout  woman  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms ! 

Was  there  ever  such  a  Cicerone  before  ?  I  looked  incredu- 
lously at  my  hostess ;  she  looked  me  honestly  enough  back,  and 
set  her  arms  a-kimbo.  I  tried  to  understand  her  to  point  to 
her  blue-eyed  daughter,  who  was  giggling  behind  her  shoulder 
— but  she  was  inexorable. 


THE  LADIES'  READKH.  199 

I  grew  frightened ;  the  woman  was  well  enough,  though  jog- 
ging upon  forty.  But  the  baby — what  on  earth  should  it  be 
d"ing:  suppose  >hf  \\ere  to  put  it  in  my  arms  in  some  retired 
part  of  the  village  .'  Only  fancy  me  six  leagues  from  Amster- 
dam, with  only  ten  guilders  in  my  pocket,  and  a  fat  Dutch 
baby  squalling  in  my  hands !  But  the  woman — with  a  ripe, 
ivd,  laughing  cheek,  had  a  charitable  eye,  and  we  set  off  to- 
got  1. 

;  a  bit,  though,  could  we  talk,  and  it  was  nichts,  nichts, 
h<  >wovcr  I  put  the  questions.  Nature  designed  eyes  to  talk  half 
;i  language,  ami  the  good  soul  pleaded  to  me  with  hers  for  the 
beauty  of  her  village — words  of  the  oldest  Cicerone  could  not 
plead  stronger.  And  as  for  the  village  it  needed  none.  It  was 
nke  dreaming ;  it  was  like  a  fairv  land. 

Av  a  little  bridge  we  turned  off  the  towpath  of  the 

canal,  and  directly  were  iu  the  quiet  ways  of  the  town.  They 
all  paved  \\ith  pebbles  or  bricks,  arranged  in  every  quaint 
variety  of  pattern;  and  all  so  clean,  that  I  could  find  no  place 
to  knock  tin-  ashes  from  my  pipe.  The  grass  that  grew  up 
where  to  the  edge  of  the  walks  was  short — not  the  prim 
>h<>rtness  of  French  shearing,  but  it  had  a  look  of  dwarfish 
neatness,  as  if  custom  had  habituated  it  to  short  growth,  and 
habit  become  nature.  All  this  in  the  public  highway — not 
live  yards  wide,  but  under  so  strict  municipal  surveillance,  that 
no  horse  or  unclean  thing  was  allowed  to  trample  on  its  neat- 
ness. Once  a  little  donkey,  harnessed  to  a  miniature  carriage, 
passed  us,  in  whieh  A\as  a  Dutch  Miss,  to  whom  my  lady  pa- 
troness with  the  baby  bowed  low.  It  was  evidently,  however,  a 
privileged  lady,  and  the  donkey's  feet  had  been  waxed. 

Little  yards  were  before  the  houses,  and  these  stocked  with 
all  sorts  of  flowers,  arranged  in  all  sorts  of  forms,  and  so  clean — 
walks,  brds  and  flowers — that  I  am  sure,  a  passing  sparrow 
could  not  have  trimmed  his  feathers  in  the  plat,  without  bring- 
ing out  a  toddling  Dutch  wife  with  her  broom.     The  fences 
alxolutrlv   polished  with  paint;    and  the  hedges  were 
elipped — not,   with   shears,  but  scissors.     Now  and  then  faces 
would   peep  out   of  the  windows,  but  in  general  the  curtains 
close  drawn.      \V<-  saw  no  men,  but  one  or  two  old  gar- 
driii-rs  and  a  half a-do/m    painters.     (iirlsAve  met,  who  would 
1  word  to  my  entertainer,  and  a  glance  to  me,  and  a  low 
eoiirt.-y,   and    would    chuckle  the  baby  under  the   chin,  and 
;/lanre  again.     Jiut  they  were  not  better  dressed,  nor  prettier, 
than  the  rest  of  the  world,  besides  having  a  great  deal  shorter 


200  THE   LADIKS'  IlKAI'HIl. 

waists  and  larger  ancles.  They  looked  happy,  and  healthy,  and 
homelike. 

Little  boys  were  rolling  along  home  from  school — rolling,  I 
mean,  as  a  seaman  rolls — with  their  short  legs,  and  fat  bodies, 
and  phlegmatic  faces.  Two  of  them  were  throwing  off  hook 
and  bait  into  the  canal  from  under  the  trees;  and  good  fishers, 
I  dare  say,  they  made,  for  never  a  word  did  they  speak  ;  and  I 
almost  fancied  that  if  I  had  stepped  quietly  up,  and  kicked  one 
of  them  into  the  water,  the  other  would  have  quietly  pulled  in 
his  line — taken  off  his  bait — put  all  in  his  pocket,  and  toddled 
off  in  true  Dutch  style,  home,  to  tell  his  Dutch  mamma. 

Bound  pretty  angles  that  came  unlocked  for,  and  the  shady 
square  of  the  church — not  a  sound  anywhere — we  passed  along, 
the  woman,  the  baby,  and  I.  Half  a  dozen  times,  I  wanted 
Cameron  with  me  to  enjoy  a  good  Scotch  laugh  at  the  oddity 
of  the  whole  thing ;  for  there  was  something  approaching  the 
ludicrous  in  the  excess  of  cleanliness — to  say  nothing  about  my 
stout  attendant,  whose  cares  and  anxieties  were  most  amusingly 
divided  between  me  and  the  babe.  There  was  a  large  garden, 
a  phthisicky  old  gardener  took  me  over,  with  puppets  in  cot- 
tages, going  by  clockwork — an  old  woman  spinning,  dog  bark- 
ing, and  wooden  mermaids  playing  in  artificial  water ;  these  all 
confirmed  the  idea  with  which  the  extravagant  neatness  can 
not  fail  to  impress  one,  that  the  whole  thing  is  a  mockery,  and 
in  no  sense  earnest. 

From  this  we  wandered  away  in  a  new  quarter,  to  the  tubs, 
and  pans,  and  presses  of  the  dairy.  The  woman  in  waiting  gave 
a  suspicious  glance  at  my  feet  when  I  entered  the  cow-stable ; 
and  afterward,  when  she  favored  me  with  a  look  into  her  home, 
all  beset  with  high-polished  cupboards  and  china,  my  steps 
were  each  one  of  them  regarded — though  my  boots  had  been 
cleaned  two  hours  before — as  if  I  had  been  treading  in  her 
churn,  and  not  upon  a  floor  of  stout  Norway  plank.  The  press 
was  adorned  with  brazen  weights,  and  bands  shining  like  gold. 
The  big  mastiff  who  turned  the  churn  was  sleeping  under  the 
table,  and  the  maid  showed  me  the  women  milking  over  the 
low  ditches  in  the  fields, — for  the  sun  was  getting  near  to  the 
far  away  flat  grounds  in  the  west. 

With  another  stroll  through  the  clean  streets  of  the  village,  I 
returned  to  my  little  inn,  where  I  sat  under  the  braided  limbs 
of  the  beech-tree  over  the  door.  There  was  something  in  the 
quiet  and  cleanliness  that  impressed  me  like  a  picture,  or  a  cu- 
rious book.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  healthy  flesh  and  blood,  with 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  201 

all  its  passions  and  cares,  could  make  a  part  of  such  a  way  of 
living.  I  am  sure  that  some  of  the  dirty  people  along  tin 
Rhone,  and  in  the  Vallais  Canton  of  Switzerland,  if  suddenly 
translated  t<>  the  grass  slopes  that  sink  into  the  water  at  Broek, 
would  imagine  it  some  new  creation. 

So  I  sat  there  musing  before  the  inn,  looking  out  over  the 
canal,  and  the  vast  plain  with  its  feeding  flocks,  and  over  the 
of  cottages,  and  windmills,  and  far-off"  delicate  spires. 


OUR  HOMES.— BERNARD  BARTON.    , 

Where  burns  the  loved  hearth  brightest, 

Cheering  the  social  breast  ? 
"Where  beats  the  fond  heart  lightest, 

Its  humble  hopes  possessed  ? 
Where  is  the  smile  of  sadness, 

Of  meek-eyed  patience  born, 
Worth  more  than  those  of  gladness 

Which  mirth's  bright  cheek  adorn  ? 
Pleasure  is  marked  by  fleetness, 

To  those  who  ever  roam  ; 
Whil  lias  sweetness 

At  Home  !   dear  homo  ! 

There  blend  the  ties  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief, 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joy's  visits  when  most  brief; 
There  eyes,  in  all  their  splendor, 

Are  vocal  to  the  heart, 
And  glances,  gay  or  tender, 

Fresh  eloquence  impart; 
Then  dost  thou  sigh  for  pleasure  I 

Oh  1  do  not  widely  roam ; 
But  seek  that  hidden  treasure 

At  Home !  dear  homo ! 

ire  religion  charm  thee 
Fur  moiv  than  aught  In-low? 
Wouldst  thou  that  six-  should  arm  thee 

iiist  the  hour  of  woe? 
Think  not  she  dwelleth  only 
In  temples  built  for  prayer; 
For  Home  itself  is  lonely 
Unless  her  smiles  be  there ; 


202  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

The  devotee  may  falter, 
The  bigot  blindly  roam ; 

If  worshipless  her  altar 
At  Home !  dear  home ! 

Love  over  it  presideth, 

With  meek  and  watchful  awe, 
Its  daily  service  guideth, 

And  shows  its  perfect  law ; 
If  there  thy  faith  shall  fail  thee, 

If  there  no  shrine  be  found, 
"What  can  thy  prayers  avail  thee, 

"With  kneeling  crowds  around  ? 
Go  1  leave  thy  gift  unoffered 

Beneath  Religion's  dome, 
And  be  her  first  fruits  proffered 

At  Home !  dear  home ! 


STAY.— PEECIVAL. 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours ; 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away, 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves ; 
And,  from  its  darkening  shadow,  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods, 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west- wind  play ; 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


THK  LADIES'  READER.  203 


DESCRIPTIOX  OF 

On  Susquehanna'a  side,  fair  Wyoming  1 
Although  the  wild-flower  on  thy  ruin'd  wall 
And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall ; 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 
Sweet  land !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 
And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore  1 

Delightful  Wyoming !    beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  naught  to  do 
But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities, 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe 
From  morn,  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  iho  forests  brown, 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew, 
And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  down 
"Would  echo  flageolet  from  some  romantic  town. 

Then,  where  on  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree  : 
And  every  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee, 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men ; 
While,  hearkening,  fearing  naught  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then 
Unhunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 

i,  but  in  transatlantic  story  sung, 
For  hero  the  exile  met  from  every  clime, 

I  spoke  in  friendship  every  distant  tongue: 
Men  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung, 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook ; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  rung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 
The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  pruning-hook. 

Nor  far  some  Andalusian  saraband 
Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay — 
But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 
Remembers,  over  hills  and  far  away? 

«-n  Albin!  what  though  he  no  more  survey 
Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore, 
Thy  pellocks  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 
Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 
And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan  roar. 


204  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Alas !  poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 
That  want's  stern  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief, 
Had  forced  him  from  a  home  ho  loved  so  dear! 
Yet  found  he  here  a  home,  and  glad  relief, 
And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 
That  fired  his  Highland  blood  with  mickle  glee : 
And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief, 
Who  taught  those  sires  of  Empires  yet  to  be, 
To  plant  the  tree  of  life, — to  plant  fair  Freedom's  tree ! 

Here  was  not  mingled  in  the  city's  pomp 
Of  life's  extremes  the  grandeur  and  the  gloom ; 
Judgment  awoke  not  here  her  dismal  tromp, 
Nor  seal'd  in  blood  a  fellow-creature's  doom, 
Nor  mourn'd  the  captive  in  a  living  tomb. 
One  venerable  man,  beloved  of  all, 
Sufficed,  where  innocence  was  yet  in  bloom, 
To  sway  the  strife,  that  seldom  might  befall : 
And  Albert  was  their  judge  in  patriarchal  hall. 


MR.  MINNS  AND  HIS 

MR.  AUGUSTUS  MINNS  was  a  bachelor,  of  about  forty,  as  he 
said — of  about  cight-and-forty,  as  his  friends  said.  lie  was  al- 
ways exceedingly  clean,  precise,  and  tidy ;  perhaps  somewhat 
priggish,  and  the  most  retiring  man  in  the  world.  He  usually 
wore  a  brown  frock-coat  without  a  wrinkle,  a  neat  neckerchief 
with  a  remarkably  neat  tie,  and  boots  without  a  fault ;  more- 
over, he  always  carried  a  brown  silk  umbrella  with  an  ivory 
handle.  He  was  a  clerk  in  Somerset-house,  or,  as  he  said  him- 
self, he  held  "  a  responsible  situation  under  Government."  He 
had  a  good  and  increasing  salary,  in  addition  to  some  £10,000 
of  his  own  (invested  in  the  funds),  and  he  occupied  a  first-floor 
in  Tavistock  Street,  Covent  Garden,  where  he  had  resided  for 
twenty  years,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  quarrelling  with  his 
landlord  the  whole  time,  regularly  giving  notice  of  his  intention 
to  quit  on  the  first  day  of  every  quarter,  and  as  regularly  coun- 
termanding it  on  the  second.  There  were  two  classes  of  created 
objects  which  he  held  in  the  deepest  and  most  unmingled  hor- 
ror; they  were,  dogs  and  children.  He  was  not  unamiable,  but 
he  could  at  anytime  have  viewed  the  execution  of  a  dog,  or  the 
assassination  of  an  infant,  with  the  liveliest  satisfaction.  Their 
habits  were  at  variance  with  his  love  of  order ;  and  his  love  of 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  205 

v/rder  was  as  powerful  as  his  love  of  life.  Mr.  Augustus  Minns 
had  no  relations,  in  or  near  London,  with  the  exception  of  his 
cousin,  Mr.  Octavius  Buddcn,  to  whose  son,  whom  he  had  never 
seen  (for  he  disliked  the  father)  he  had  consented  to  become 
•her,  l»y  proxy.  Mr.  Budden  having  realized  a  moderate 
fortune  by  exercising  the  trade  or  calling  of  a  corn-chandler, 
and  having  a  great  predilection  for  the  country,  had  purchased 
a  cottage  in  the  vicinity  of  Stamford  Hill,  whither  he  retired, 
with  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  and  his  only  son,  Master  Alexander 
Augustus  Buddcn.  One  evening,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  were  ad- 
miring their  son,  discussing  his  various  merits,  talking  over  his 
education,  and  disputing  whether  the  classics  should  be  made 
an  <--cntial  part  thereof,  the  lady  pressed  so  strongly  upon  her 
husband  the  propriety  of  cultivating  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Minns 
in  Ix-half  of  their  son,  that  Mr.  Budden  at  last  made  up  his 
mind,  that  it  should  not  be  his  fault  if  he  and  his  cousin  were 
not,  in  future,  moiv  intimate. 

••I'll  Invak  the  ice,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Budden,  "  by  asking 
Minns  down  to  dine  with  us,  on  Sunday." 

"Tlu-ii,  pray,  Mr.  Buddcn,  write  to  your  cousin  at  once,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Imdden.     "Who  knows,  if  we  could  only  get  him 
down  here,  but  that  he  might  take  a  fancy  to  our  Alexander, 
him  his  property? — Alick,  my  dear,  take  your  legs 
otf  the.  rail  of  the  chair  !" 

"  Very  true,"  said  Mr.  Budden,  musing,  "very  true,  indeed, 
my  1 

On  the  following  morning,  as  Mr.  Minns  was  sitting  at  his 

lnvakfa-t-tabli',  alternately  biting  his  dry  toast,  and  casting  a 

1'Mik  upon  the  columns  of  his  morning  paper,  which  he  always 

read  from  the  title  to  the  printer's  name,  he  heard  a  loud  knock 

at  the  street-door,  which  was,  shortly  afterwards,  followed  by 

Mtranee  of  his  servant,  who  put  into  his  hand  a  particularly 

•-mall  card,  on  which  was  engraved,  in  immense  letters,  "Mr. 

I  liidden,  Amelia  Cottage  (Mrs.  B.'s  name  was  Amelia), 

1'oplar  Walk,  Stamford  Hill." 

'•  IJuddui,''  ejaculated  Minns,  "what  the  deuce  can  bring  that 
vulgar  fellow  here ! — say  I'm  asleep — say  I'm  out,  and  shall 
never  be  home  again — any  thing  to  keep  him  down  stairs." 

"But  p!  ,  the  gentleman's  coming  up,"  replied  the 

;it ;  and  the  fa<-t  was  made  perfectly  evident,  by  an  appal- 
ling (Tcakin-j;  of  boots  on  the  staircase,  accompanied  by  a  pat- 
5  noise,  the  cause  of  \vhich  Minus  could  not,  for  the  life  of 
him,  divine. 


206  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

"  Hem  ! — show  the  gentleman  in,"  said  the  unfortunate  bache- 
lor. Exit  servant,  and  enter  Octavius,  preceded  by  a  large  white 
shaggy  dog,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  fleecy  hosiery,  with  pink  eyes, 
large  ears,  and  no  perceptible  tail. 

The  cause  of  the  pattering  on  the  stairs  was  but  too  plain. 
Mr.  Augustus  Minns  staggered  beneath  the  shock  of  the  clog's 
appearance. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  are  you  ?"  said  Budden  as  he  entered. 

He  always  spoke  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  always  said  the 
same  thing  half-a-dozen  times. 

"  How  are  you,  my  hearty  ?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Budden  ? — pray  take  a  chair  !"  politely 
stammered  the  discomfited  Minns. 

"  Thank  you — thank  you — well- — how  are  you,  eh  ?" 

"  Uncommonly  well,  thank  ye,"  said  Minns,  casting  a  look  at 
the  dog,  who,  with  his  hind-legs  on  the  floor,  and  his  fore-paws 
resting  on  the  table,  was  dragging  a  bit  of  bread-an-d-butter  out 
of  a  plate,  preparatory  to  devouring  it,  with  the  buttered  side  • 
next  the  carpet. 

"  Ah,  you  rogue !"  said  Budden  to  his  dog ;  "  you  see,  Minns, 
he's  like  me,  always  at  home,  eh,  my  boy  ? — Egad,  I'm  precious 
hot  and  hungry  !  I've  walked  all  the  way  from  Stamford  Hill 
this  morning." 

"  Have  you  breakfasted  ?"  inquired  Minns. 

"  Oh,  no  ! — came  to  breakfast  with  you ;  so  ring  the  bell,  my 
dear  fellow,  will  you  ?  and  let's  have  another  cup  and  saucer, 
and  the  cold  ham. — Make  myself  at  home,  you  see  !"  continued 
Budden,  dusting  his  boots  with  a  table-napkin.  "  Ha ! — ha  !— 
ha! — 'pon  my  life,  I'm  hungry." 

Minns  rang  the  bell,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  decidedly  never  was  so  hot  in  my  life,"  continued  Octa- 
vius, wiping  his  forehead ;  u  well,  how  are  you,  Minns  ?  'Pon 
my  life,  you  wear  capitally !" 

"  D'ye  think  so  ?"  said  Minns ;  and  he  tried  another  smile. 

"'Pon  my  life,  I  do!" 

"  Mrs.  B.  and — what's  his  name — quite  well  ?" 

"  Alick — my  son,  you  mean,  never  better — never  better.  But 
at  such  a  place  as  we've  got  at  Poplar  Walk,  you  know,  he 
couldn't  be  ill  if  he  tried.  When  I  first  saw  it,  by  Jove !  it 
looked  so  knowing,  with  the  front  garden,  and  the  green  rail- 
ings, and  the  brass  knocker,  and  all  that — I  really  thought  it 
was  a  cut  above  me." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  like  the  ham  better,"  interrupted 


THE    LAWKS'   liKADTCR.  207 

Minns,  "if  you  cut  it  the  other  way  '."  He  saw,  with  feelings 
which  it  is  impossible  t<>  describe,  that  his  visitor  was  cutting 
or  rather  maiming  the  ham,  in  utter  violation  to  all  established 

rules. 

M  Xo,  thank  ye,'1  returned  liudden,  with  the  most  barbarous 
indifference  to  crime,  "  1  prefer  it  in  this  way — it  oats  short. 
]>ut  I  say,  Minns,  when  will  v«.n  come  down  and  see  us?  Yon 
will  he  delighted  with  the  place;  I  know  you  will.  Amelia 
and  I  were  talking  ahout  y«>u  the  other  night,  and  Amelia  said 
— another  lump  of  su^ar,  please:  thank  ye  — she  said,  don't  you 
think  you  could  contrive,  my  dear,  to  say  to  Mr.  Minns,  in  a 
friendly  way — conn-  down,  sir — the  dou~!  he's  spoiling  your 
curtains,  Minns — ha! — ha! — ha!"  Minns  leaped  from  his  seat 
as  though  he  had  received  the  di.-char-'e  from  a  galvanic 

battery. 

••  <  '.-me  <>\\\,  out,  lioo !"  cried  poor  Augustus,  keep- 

ing, nevert heir-,  at  a  very  respectful  distance  from  the  dog, 
having  read  <>i  a  case  «-f  hydrophobia  in  tlie  paper  of  that  morn- 
inir.  I'»y  dint  of  ^reat  exertion,  much  shouting,  and  a  marvel- 
leal  of  poking  under  the  tables  with  a  stick  and  umbrella, 
the  ilun;  \\as  at  last  dislodged,  and  placed  on  the  landing,  out- 
side tin-  do..r,  where  he  immediately  commenced  a  most  appal- 
ling howling;  at  the  same  time  vehemently  scratching  the  paint 
off  the  i \\ o  nicely-varnished  bottom  panels  of  the  door,  until 
they  resembled  the  interior  of  a  back  gammon-board. 

••  A  -• 1  dour  f.,r  the  country  that  !''  coolly  observed  Budden 

to  the  di-tract.-d  Minns — "he's  not  much  used  to  confinement, 
though.  I5ut  now,  Minn*,  when  will  you  come  down?  I'll 
take  no  denial,  posit'uely.  Let's  see,  to-day's  Thursday. — Will 
you  come  <m  Sunday  '.  \\"e  dine  at  five,  don't  sa^  no — do." 

Att«T  a  uTcat  deal  of  pi-c->in^,  Mr.  Augustus  Minns,  driven  to 
de-paii-.  accepted  the  invitation,  and  promised  to  be  at  Poplar 
Walk  on  the  ensuinif  Sundav,  at  a  quarter  before  five  to  the 
minute. 

"Now  mind  the  direction,"  said  Imdden ;  "the  coach  goes 
fr<>m  tho  Flowerpot,  in  .Uishopsgate  Street,  every  half  hour. 
When  the  coach  stops  at  the  S\\an,  you'll  see,  immediately  op- 
posite you,  a  white  house." 

"Which  is  your  house  — I  understand,"  said  Minns,  wishing 
to  cut  short  the  visit  and  the  story  at  the  same  time. 

"No,  no,  that's  not  mine;  that's  Grogus's  the  great  iron- 
monger's. I  was  o-oinLC  to  say — you  turn  down  by  the  side  of 
the  white  house  till  you  can't  go  another  step  further — mind 


208  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

that — and  then  you  turn  to  your  right,  by  some  stables — well ; 
close  to  you,  you'll  see  a  wall  with  '  Beware  of  the  Dog'  written 
upon  it  in  large  letters — (Minns  shuddered) — go  along  by  the 
side  of  that  wall  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  any  body 
will  show  you  which  is  my  place." 

"  Very  well — thank  ye — good  bye." 

"  Be  punctual." 

"Certainly;  good  morning." 

"  I  say,  Minns,  you've  got  a  card  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have;  thank  ye."  And  Mr.  Octavius  Budden  de- 
parted, leaving  his  cousin  looking  forward  to  his  visit  of  the 
following  Sunday,  with  the  feelings  of  a  penniless  poet  to  the 
weekly  visit  of  his  Scotch  landlady. 

Sunday  arrived ;  the  sky  was  bright  and  clear ;  crowds  of 
people  were  hurrying  along  the  streets,  intent  on  their  different 
schemes  of  pleasure  for  the  day ;  and  every  thing  and  every  body 
looked  cheerful  and  happy  but  Mr.  Augustus  Minns. 

The  day  was  fine,  but  the  heat  was  considerable ;  and  by  the 
time  Mr.  Minns  had  fagged  up  the  shady  side  of  Fleet  Street, 
Cheapside,  and  Threadneedle  Street,  he  had  become  pretty 
warm,  tolerably  dusty,  and  it  was  getting  late  into  the  bargain. 
By  the  most  extraordinary  good  fortune,  however,  a  coach  was 
waiting  at  the  Flowerpot,  into  which  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  got, 
on  the  solemn  assurance  of  the  cad  that  the  vehicle  would  start 
in  three  minutes — that  being  the  very  utmost  extremity  of  time 
it  was  allowed  to  wait  by  Act  of  Parliament.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  elapsed,  and  there  were  no  signs  of  moving.  Minns  looked 
at  his  watch  for  the  sixth  time. 

"  Coachman,  are  you  going,  or  not  ?"  bawled  Mr.  Minns,  with 
his  head  and  half  his  body  out  of  the  coach-window. 

"Di — rectly,  sir,"  said  the  coachman,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  looking  as  much  unlike  a  man  in  a  hurry  as  possible. 

Five  minutes  more  elapsed ;  at  the  end  of  which  time  the 
coachman  mounted  the  box,  from  whence  he  looked  down  the 
street  and  up  the  street,  and  hailed  all  the  pedestrians  for  an- 
other five  minutes. 

"  Coachman !  if  you  don't  go  this  moment,  I  shall  get  out," 
said  Mr.  Minns,  rendered  desperate  by  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
*and  the  impossibility  of  being  in  Poplar  Walk  at  the  appointed 
time. 

"Going  this  minute,  sir,"  was  the  reply ;  and  accordingly  the 
machine  trundled  on  for  a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  and  then 
stopped  again.  Minns  doubled  himself  up  into  a  corner  of  the 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  209 

coach,  and  abandoned  himself  to  fate,  as  a  child,  a  mother,  a 
bandbox,  and  a  parasol  became  his  fellow-passengers. 

The  child  was  an  affectionate  and  an  amiable  infant ;  the 
little  dear  mistook  Minns  for  its  other  parent,  and  screamed  to 
embrace  him. 

"Be  quiet,  dear,"  said  the  mamma,  restraining  the  impetuos- 
ity of  the  darling,  whose  little  fat  legs  were  kicking  and  stamp- 
ing, and  twining  themselves  into  the  most  complicated  forms, 
in  an  ecstasy  of  impatience.  "Be  quiet,  dear,  that's  not  your 
papa." 

"  Thank  I  leaven  I  am  not" — thought  Minns,  as  the  first  gleam 
of  pleasure  In-  had  experienced  that  morning  shone  like  a  meteor 
through  his  wretchedii' 

Play  full.  -Mv  mingled  with  affection  in  the  dis- 

'"ii  of  tin-  boy.  \Vhen  satisfied  that  Mr.  Minns  was  not  his 
:,  he  endeavored  to  attract  his  notice  by  scraping  his  drab 
ith  his  dirty  shoes,  poking  his  chest  with  his  mam- 
parasol,  and  other  nameless  endearments  peculiar  to  in- 
fancy, \\-ith  which  In-  beguiled  the  tediousness  of  the  ride,  ap- 
iy  very  much  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

\Yhcn  the  unfortunate  gentleman  arrived  at  the  swan,  he 
found  to  his  great  di-may,  that  it  was  a  quarter  past  five.  The 
white  house,  the  stables,  the  " Beware  of  the  Dog" — every 
landmark  was  pa«ed,  with  a  rapidity  not  unusual  to  a  gentle- 
man of  a  certain  age  when  too  late  for  dinner.  After  the  lapse 
of  a  few  minute-,  Mr.  Minns  found  himself  opposite  a  yellow 
bricjc  hou>e  \\itli  a  green  dour,  brass  knocker  and  door-plate, 
green  window  frames  and  ditto  railings,  with  "a  garden"  in 
front.  UN  kiKir-k  at  the  door  was  answered  by  a  stumpy  boy, 
in  drab  livery,  cotton  stockings  and  high-lows,  who,  after  hang- 
ing his  hat  on  one  of  the  dozen  brass  pegs  which  ornamented 
the  passage-,  denominated  by  courtesy  "The  Hall,"  ushered  him 
•Ml  drawing-room  commanding  a  very  extensive  view 
of  the  backs  of  the  neighboring  houses.  The  usual  ceremony 
of  introduction,  and  so  forth,  over,  Mr.  Minns  took  his  seat,  not 
a  little  agitated  at  finding  that  he  was  the;  last  comer,  and, 
somehow  or  other,  the  Lion  of  about  a  dozen  people,  sitting  to- 
gether  in  a  small  drawing-room,  getting  rid  of  that  most  tedious 
of  all  time,  the  time  preceding  dinner. 

The  ceremony  of  introduction  being  over,  dinner  was  an- 
nounced, and  down  stairs  tin-  p arty  proceeded  accordingly — 
Mr.  Minns  escorting  Mrs.  Hiidden  as  far  as  the.  drawing-room 
door,  but  being  prevented,  by  the  narrowness  of  the  stai: 


'HE 


210  THE  LADIES'  KEADEB. 

« 

from  extending  Ms  gallantry  any  farther.  The  dinner  passed 
off  as  such  dinners  usually  do.  Ever  and  anon  amidst  the  clat- 
ter of  knives  and  forks,  and  the  hum  of  conversation,  Mr.  B.'s 
voice  might  be  heard,  asking  a  friend  to  take  wine,  and  assur- 
ing him  he  was  glad  to  see  him ;  and  a  great  deal  of  by-play 
took  place  between  Mrs.  B.  and  the  servants,  respecting  the 
removal  of  the  dishes,  during  which  her  countenance  assumed 
all  the  variations  of  a  weather-glass,  from  "  stormy"  to  "  set- 
fair." 

Upon  the  dessert  and  wine  being  placed  on  the  table,  the 
servant,  in  compliance  with  a  significant  look  from  Mrs.  B. 
brought  down  "Master  Alexander,"  habited  in  a  sky-blue  suit 
with  silver  buttons,  and  with  hair  of  nearly  the  same  color  as 
the  metal.  After  sundry  praises  from  his  mother,  and  various 
admonitions  as  to  his  behaviour  from  his  Pa,  he  was  introduced 
to  his  godfather. 

"  Well,  my  little  fellow — you  are  a  fine  boy,  ain't  you  ?"  said 
Mr.  Minns,  as  happy  as  a  tomtit  on  birdlime. 

"Yes." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  Eight,  next  We'nsday.     How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Alexander,"  interrupted  his  mother,  "how  dare  you  ask 
Mr.  Minns  how  old  he  is !" 

"  lie  asked  me  how  old  /  was,"  said  the  precocious  child,  to 
whom  Minns  had  from  that  moment  internally  resolved  he 
never  would  bequeath  one  shilling.  As  soon  as  the  titter  occa- 
sioned by  the  observation  had  subsided,  a  little  smirking  man 
with  red  whiskers,  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  who  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  dinner  .had  been  endeavoring  to  obtain  a  lis- 
tener to  some  stories  about  Sheridan,  called  out,  with  a  very 
patronising  nir — "  Alick,  what  part  of  speech  is  be  ?" 

"  A  verb." 

"  That's  a  good  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Budden  with  all  a  mother's 
pride.  "  Now,  you  know  what  a  verb  is?" 

"  A  verb  is  a  word  which  signifies  to  be,  to  do,  or  to  suffer ; 
as,  I  am — I  rule — I  am  ruled.  Give  me  an  apple,  Ma." 

"I'll  give  you  an  apple,"  replied  the  man  with  the  red 
whiskers,  who  was  an  established  friend  of  the  family,  or  in 
other  words,  was  always  invited  by  Mrs.  Budden,  whether  Mr. 
Budden  liked  it  or  not, — "  if  you'll  tell  me  what  is  the  meaning 
of  be." 

"Be?"  said  the  prodigy,  after  a  little  hesitation — "an  insect 
that  gathers  honey." 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER.  2H 

••  No,  dear,"  frowned  Mrs.Budden.  "B  double  E  is  the  sub- 
etanti 

"  I  don't  tliink  he  knows  much  yet  about  common  substan- 
."  said  the  smirking  uvntleman,  who  thought  this  an  ad- 
mirable opportunity  tor  letting  off  a  joke.  "It's  clear  he's  not 
\vr\ •  wi-11  acquainted  with  •]>/•  9.  He!  he!  he!" 

"Gentlemen,"  railed  out  Mr.  Buddcn,  from  the  end  of  the 
table,  in  a  stentorian  voice,  and  with. a  very  important  air, 
••will  you  have  tbe  ^.H.dness  to  <•',  r  glasses?  I  have  a 

:  to  propose." 

••Hear!  hear!"  cried  the  gentlemen,  passing  the  decanters. 
After  they  had  made  the  round  of  the  table,  Mr.  Buddcn  pro- 
:•••! — "<  Jeiitleinen  :  there  is  an  individual  present — " 

'*  Ib  ar!  hear!"  sai«l  the  little  man  with  red  whiskers. 

"Pray  be  ijuict,  .J«>nc>,"  remonstrated  I>udden. 

"I  say,  ^-nth-men,  there  is  an  individual  present,"  resumed 
the  host,  uin  whose  society,  I  am  sure  we  must  take  great  de- 
light— and — and — the  conversation  of  that  individual  must  have 
att'onled  to  everyone  present,  the  utmost  pleasure.  Gentlemen, 
1  am  but  a  humble  individual  myself,  and  I  perhaps  ought  to 
apologise  fi-r  allowing  any  individual  feelings  of  friendship  and 
all'eetion  for  the  person  I  allude  to,  to  induce  me  to  venture  to 
ri>«-,  to  propose  the  health  of  that  person — a  person  that  I  arn 
sure — that  is  to  say,  a  person  whose  virtues  must  endear  him  to 
who  know  him — and  those  who  have  not  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  him,  eannot  dislike  him." 

"Hrar!  hear!"  said  the  company,  in  a  tone  of  encourage- 
ment and  approval. 

"Gentlemen,"  continued   Buddcn,  "my  cousin  is  a  man  who 


— who  is  a  ivlation  of  my  own."  (Hear!  hear!)  Minns 
liToaip'd  audibly.  "  Vv'ho  1  am  most  happy  to  see  here,  and 
who,  if  he  were  not  here,  would  certainly  have  deprived  us  of 
•iva1  pleasure  we  all  feel  in  serin--  him.  (Loud  cries  of 
hear.)  (leiiil.-inen,  I  feel  that  I  have  already  trespassed  on 

your  attention  for  too  lonir  a  time.      With  every  feeling of 

with  every  sentiment  of of " 

tification"— suggested  the  friend  of  the  family." 

" Of  uTatinVation,  I  beg  to  propose  the  health  of  Mr. 

Minns/' 

All  eyes  were  now  fixed  on  the  subject  of  the  toast,  who  by 
U-ulpiii'j;  down  port  \\in«-  at  the  mimim-nt  hazard  of  suffocation, 
•  •nd'-a\.>rcd  to  CDii.-cal  his  ronfusion.  After  as  long  a  pause  as 
decency  would  admit,  he  rose,  but,  as  the  newspapers  some- 


212  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

times  say  in  their  reports,  "  we  regret  that  we  are  quite  unable 
to  give  even  the  substance  of  the  honorable  gentleman's  obser- 
vations." The  words  "  present  company — honor — present  occa- 
sion," and  "  great  happiness" — heard  occasionally,  and  repeated 
at  intervals,  with  a  countenance  expressive  of  the  utmost  confu- 
sion and  misery,  convinced  the  company  that  he  was  making 
an  excellent  speech ;  and  accordingly,  on  his  resuming  his  seat, 
they  cried  "  Bravo !"  and  manifested  tumultuous  applause. 
Jones,  who  had  been  long  watching  his  opportunity,  then 
darted  up. 

"Budden,"  said  he,  "will  you  allow  me  to  propose  a  toast?" 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Budden. 

"It  has  on  several  occasions,  in  various  instances,  under 
many  circumstances,  and  in  different  companies,  fallen  to  my 
lot  to  propose  a  toast  to  those  by  whom,  at  the  time,  I  have 
had  the  honor  to  be  surrounded.  I  have  sometimes,  I  will 
cheerfully  own — for  why  should  I  deny  it  ? — felt  the  over- 
whelming nature  of  the  task  I  have  undertaken,  and  my  own 
utter  incapability  to  do  justice  to  the  subject.  If  such  have 
been  my  feelings,  however,  on  former  occasions,  what  must 
they  be  now — now — under  the  extraordinary  circumstances  in 
which  lam  placed.  (Hear!  hear!)  To  describe  my  feelings 
accurately  would  be  impossible ;  but  I  cannot  give  you  a  better 
idea  of  them,  gentlemen,  than  by  referring  to  a  circumstance 
which  happens,  oddly  enough,  to  occur  to  my  mind  at  the  mo- 
ment. On  one  occasion,  when  that  truly  great  and  illustrious 
man,  Sheridan,  was " 

Now,  there  is  no  knowing  what  new  villainy  in  the  form  of  a 
joke  would  have  been  heaped  upon  the  memory  of  that  very 
ill-used  man,  Mr.  Sheridan,  if  the  boy  in  drab  had  not  at  that 
moment  entered  the  room  in  a  breathless  state,  to  report  that, 
as  it  was  a  very  wet  night,  the  nine  o'clock  stage  had  come 
round  to  know  whether  there  was  anybody  going  to  town,  as, 
in  that  case,  he  (the  nine  o'clock)  had  room  for  one  inside. 

Mr.  Minns  started  up ;  and,  despite  countless  exclamations 
of  surprise,  and  entreaties  to  stay,  persisted  in  his  determina- 
tion to  accept  the  vacant  place.  But  the  brown  silk  umbrella 
was  nowhere  to  be  found;  and  as  the  coachman  couldn't  wait, 
he  drove  back  to  the  Swan,  leaving  word  for  Mr.  Minns  to 
"  run  round"  and  catch  him.  But  as  it  did  not  occur  to  Mr. 
Minns  for  some  ten  minutes  or  so,  that  he  had  left  the  brown 
silk  umbrella  with  the  ivory  handle  in  the  other  coach,  com i no- 
down  ;  and,  moreover,  as  he  was  by  no  means  remarkable  for 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  213 

speed,  it  is  no  matter  of  surprise  that  when  he  accomplished 
the  feat  of  "  running  round  to  the  Swan,  the  coach — the  last 
coach — had  gone  without  him. 

It  was  somewhere  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 
Mr.  Augustus  Minns  knocked  feebly  at  the  street  door  of  his 
'ngs  in  Tavistoek-strcet,  cold,  wet,  cross,  and  miserable. 
He  made  his  will  next  morning,  and  his  professional  man  in- 
forms us,  in  that  strict  confidence  in  which  we  inform  the  pub- 
lic, that  neither  the  name  of  Mr.  Otavius  Budden,  nor  of  Mrs. 
Amelia  Budden,  nor  of  Master  Alexander  Augustus  Budden, 
appears  therein. 


THANK  GOD  FOR  SUMMER -ELKA  COOK. 

I  loved  the  "Winter  once  with  all  my  soul, 

And  longed  for  snow-storms,  hail  and  mantled  skies ; 

And  sang  their  praises  in  as  gay  a  troll 
As  Troubadours  have  poured  to  Beauty's  eyes. 

I  deemed  the  hard,  black  frost  a  pleasant  thing, 
For  logs  blazed  high,  and  horses'  hoofs  rung  out; 

And  wild  birds  came  with  tamo  and  gentle  wing 
To  eat  the  bread  my  young  hand  flung  about. 

But  I  have  walked  into  the  world  since  then, 
And  seen  the  bitter  work  that  cold  can  do — 

Whore  the  grim  Ice  King  levels  babes  and  men 
With  bloodless  spear,  that  pierces  through  and  through. 

I  know  now,  there  are  those  who  sink  and  lie 

Upon  a  stone  bed  at  the  dead  of  night, 
I  know  the  roofless  and  unfed  must  die, 

When  even  lips  at  Plenty's  feast  turn  white. 

And  now  whene'er  I  hear  the  cuckoo's  song 
In  budding  woods,  I  bless  the  joyous  comer ; 

While  my  heart  runs  a  cadence  in  a  throng 
Of  hopeful  notes,  that  say — "Thank  God  for  Summer!" 

I've  learnt  that  sunshine  bringeth  more  than  flowers, 
And  fruits,  and  forest  leaves  to  cheer  the  earth ; 

For  I  have  seen  sad  spirits,  like  dark  bowers, 
Light  up  beneatli  it  with  a  grateful  mirth. 

The  aged  limbs  that  quiver  in  their  task, 

Of  dragging  life  on,  when  the  north  winds  goad- 
Taste  once  'again  contentment,  as  they  bask 

In  the  straight  beams  that  warm  their  churchyard  road. 




214  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  Childhood — poor,  pinched  Childhood,  half  forgets 
The  starving  pittance  of  our  cottage  homes, 

When  he  can  leave  the  hearth,  and  chase  the  nets 
Of  gossamer  that  cross  him  as  he  roams. 

The  moping  idiot  seemeth  less  distraught 
When  he  can  sit  upon  the  grass  all  day, 

And  laugh,  and  clutch  the  blades,  as  though  he  thought 
The  yellow  sun-rays  challenged  him  to  play. 

Ah !  dearly  now  I  hail  the  nightingale, 

And  greet  the  bee — the  merry-going  hummer — 

And  when  the  lilies  peep  so  sweet  and  pale, 
I  kiss  their  cheeks,  and  say — "  Thank  God  for  Summer  1" 

Feet  that  limp,  blue  and  bleeding  as  they  go 

For  dainty  cresses  in  December's  dawn, 
Can  wade  and  dabble  in  the  brooklet's  flow, 

And  woo  the  gurgles  on  a  July  morn. 

The  tired  pilgrim,  who  would  shrink  with  dread 
If  Winter's  drowsy  torpor  lulled  his  brain ; 

Is  free  to  choose  his  mossy  summer  bed, 

And  sleep  his  hour  or  two  in  some  green  lane. 

Oh !  Ice-toothed  King,  I  loved  you  once — but  now 

I  never  see  you  come  without  a  pang 
Of  hopeless  pity  shadowing  my  brow, 

To  think  how  naked  flesh  must  feel  your  fling. 

My  eyes  watch  now  to  see  the  elms  unfold, 

And  my  ears  listen  to  the  callow  rook ; 
I  hunt  the  palm-trees  for  their  first  rich  gold, 

And  pry  for  violets  in  the  southern  nook. 

And  when  fair  Flora  sends  the  butterfly 

Painted  and  spangled,  as  her  herald  mummer  ; 

'•  Now  for  warm  holidays,"  my  heart  will  cry, 

"  The  poor  will  suffer  less !     Thank  God  for  Summer !" 


THE  SNOWFLAKE— HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 

"  Now,  if  I  fa.ll,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  lone  and  lowly  spot, 

To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen,  or  forgot  ? 

And  there  will  my  course  be  ended  ?" 
'Twas  this  a  feathery  Snowflake  said, 
As  down  through  measureless  space  it  strayed, 
Or  as,  half  by  dalliance,  half  afraid, 

It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended 


THE   LADIES1  Ri:  ADKR.  215 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  Earth,  i:thou  shalt  not  lie 

ami  lone  on  my  lap  to  die, 
Thou  ]>iuv  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky  I 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping. 
Wit,  then,  I  must  lovelier  form — 

Thou  wilt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm, 
JBut  revive-,  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm, 
i  the  (lowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping! 

'•'  And  then,  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice,  to  bo 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  lea, 
In  the  jVssnmino  bloom,  the  anein 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness; 
To  melt,  and  bo  cast  in  a  glittering  bead 
"With  the  pearls  that  t'.  liters  over  the  mead, 

In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  luvily  feed, 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness. 

"I'll  let  thce  awake  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep. 
In  a  tremulous  tear;  or,  a  diamond,  leap 
In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain  ; 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow,  and  heath, 
•ivnmlet.  the  I  lowers,  and  all  beneath, 
.;>and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 
Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

'•  Or  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies, 

To  shine  in  the  Iris  I'll  let  thce  a 

And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending! 
But,  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 

w  and  vernal  birth, 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth, 

And  never  regret  descend  i: 

i  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  11. 
;-  Hut.  bear  it  in  mind,  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers  nor  the  dew  to  wake; 

Nor  the  mist,  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning. 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  will  die  with  thee; 
But  tho.se  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me, 
Must  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  du.st  sot  free, 

To  the  regions  above  returning. 

'•  And  if  true  to  thy  word  and  just  thou  art, 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest,  heart, 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  mo  depart, 

Anii'retiirn  to  my  native  heaven. 
For  I  would  bo  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow; 

;thou  mayst  remember  ih<.  Flake,  of  SilOW 
Uy  the  pr..mis.-  liiat  COD  hath  giveul" 


216  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


IMOGEN  AT  THE  CAYE.-SHAKSPEARE. 

IMOGEN,  in  hoy's  clothes. 

Imo.  I  see  a  man's  life  is  a  tedious  one : 
I  have  tir'd  myself;  and  for  two  nights  together 
Have  made  the  ground  my  bed.     I  should  be  sick, 
But  that  my  resolution  helps  me. — Milford, 
"When  from  the  mountain-top  Pisanio  shew'd  thee, 
Thou  wast  within  a  ken :  0  Jove  I  I  think, 
Foundations  fly  the  wretched :  such,  I  mean, 
"Where  they  should  be  reliev'd.     Two  beggars  told  me 
I  could  not  miss  my  way:  will  poor  folks  lie, 
That  have  afflictions  on  them  ;  knowing  'tis 
A  punishment,  or  trial  ?     Yes ;  no  wonder, 
"When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true :  To  lapse  in  fulness, 
Is  sorer,  than  to  lie  for  need:  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars. — My  dear  lord  ! 
Thou  art  one  o'  the  false  ones :  now  I  think  on  thee, 
My  hunger's  gone  ;  but  even  before,  I  was 
At  point  to  sink  for  food. — But  what  is  this  ? 
Here  is  a  path  to  it ;  'tis  some  savage  hold : 
I  were  best  not  call;  I  dare  not  call:  yet  famine, 
Ere  clean  it  o'erthrow  nature,  makes  it  valiant. 
Plenty,  and  peace,  breeds  cowards ;  hardness  ever 
Of  hardiness  is  mother. — Ho  !  who's  here  ? 
If  anything  that's  civil,  speak ;  if  savage, 
Take,  or  lend. — Ho !  no  answer  ?  then  I'll  enter. 
Best  draw  my  sword;  and  if  mine  enemy 
But  fear  the  sword  like  me,  he'll  scarcely  look  on't. 
Such  a  foe,  good  heaven !  [She  goes  into  the  cave. 

Enter  BELARIUS,  GUIDERIUS,  and  ARVTRAGUS. 

Bel.  You,  Polydore,  have  proved  best  woodman,  and 
Are  master  of  the  feast :  Cadwal  and  I, 
"Will  play  the  cook  and  servant :  't  is  our  match : 
The  sweat  of  industry  would  dry  and  die, 
But  for  the  end  it  works  to.     Come  ;  our  stomachs 
"Will  make  what's  homely  savory :  "Weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  restive  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard. — Now,  peace  be  here, 
Poor  house,  that  keep'st  thyself! 

Gui.  I  am  thoroughly  weary. 

Arv.  I  am  weak  with  toil,  yet  strong  in  appetite. 

Gui.  There  is  cold  meat  i'  the  cave ;  we'll  browze  on  that 
Whilst  what  we  have  kill'd  be  cook'd. 

Bel.  Stay ;  come  not  in  :  [Looking  in  cave. 

But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should  think 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

Gui.  What's  the  matter,  sir? 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  217 

Bel  By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or,  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon ! — Behold  divineness 
Xo  elder  than  a  boy ! 

Enter  IMOGEN. 

Imo.  Good  masters,  harm  mo  not ; 
Before  I  enter'd  here,  I  call'd ;  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd  or  bought  what  I  have  took  :  Good  troth, 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though  I  had  found 
Gold  strew'd  o'er  the  floor.     Here's  money  for  my  meat ; 
I  would  have  left  it  on  tho  board,  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal ;  and  parted 
"\Vith  prayers  for  the  provider. 

Gui.  Money,  youth? 

Arv.  All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to  dirt! 

<  no  better  reckon'd,  but  of  those 
"\Vlio  worship  dirty  gods. 

Imo.  I  see  you  are  angry ; 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
I  lave  died,  had  I  not  made  it. 

Bel.  Whither  bound? 

Imo.  To  Milford-IIaven,  sir. 

Bel.  What  is  your  name? 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir :  I  have  a  kinsman,  who 
Is  bound  for  Italy ;  he  embark'd  at  Milford , 
To  whom  being  gone,  almost  spent  with  hunger, 
I  am  fallen  in  this  offence. 

Ik!.  Prythee,  fair  youth, 

Think  us  no  churls ;  nor  measure  our  good  minds 
By  this  rude  place  we  live  in.     Well  encounter'd ! 
'Tis  almost  night ;  you  shall  have  better  cheer 
Ere  you  depart ;  and  thanks,  to  stay  and  eat  it. — 
Boys,  bid  him  welcome. 

Gui.  Were  you  a  woman,  youth, 

I  should  woo  hard,  but  be  your  groom — In  honesty, 
I  bid  for  you,  as  I'd  buy. 

Arv.  I'll  make 't  my  comfort 

a  man;  I'll  love  him  as  my  brother: — 
And  such  a  welcome  as  I'd  give  to  him, 
After  long  absence,  such  as  yours : — Most  welcome ! 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends. 

Imo.  'Mongst  friends! 

If  brothers ?— Would  it  had  been  so,  that  they  [Aside. 

Had  been  my  father's  sons,  then  hod  my  prize 
Been  less ;  and  so  more  equal  ballasting 
To  thee,  Posthumus. 

/•'  /.  Ho  wrings  at  some  distress. 

Gui.  'Would,  I  could  freo't! 

Arv.  Or  I ;  whato'er  it  be, 

What  pain  it  cost !  what  danger!  Gods! 

Bel  Hark.  [Whispering 

Imo.  Great  men, 

Tttat  had  a  court  no  bigger  than  this  cave, 
10 


218  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

That  did  attend  themselves,  and  had  the  virtue 
Which  their  own  conscience  seal'd  them,  (laying  by 
That  nothing  gift  of  differing  multitudes,) 
Could  not  out-peer  these  twain.     Pardon  me,  gods ! 
I'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companions  with  them, 
Since  Leonatus  false. 

Bel  It  shall  be  so ; 

Boys,  we'll  go  dress  our  hunt — Fair  youth,  come  in. ; 
Discourse  is  heavy  fasting ;  when  we  have  supp'd, 
"We'll  mannerly  demand  thee  of  thy  story, 
So  far  as  thou  wilt  speak  it. 

Gui.  Pray  draw  near. 

Arv.  The  night  to  the  owl,  and  morn  to  the  lark  less  welcome. 

Imo.  Thanks,  sir. 

Arv.  I  pray,  draw  near.  [Exeunt 


INVOCATION  TO  MORNING-THOMSON. 

The  meek-eyed  morn  appears,  mother  of  dews, 

At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east ; 

Till  far  o'er  ether  spreads  the  widening  glow; 

And,  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face, 

White  break  the  clouds  away.     With  quickened  step, 

Brown  Night  retires :  young  Day  pours  in  apace, 

And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 

The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 

Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 

Blue  through  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents  shine ; 

And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  hare 

Limps  awkward ;  while  along  the  forest  glade 

The  wild  deer  trip,  and  often,  turning,  gaze 

At  early  passenger.     Music  awakes 

The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy ; 

And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 

Eoused  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 

His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  Peace  he  dwells  • 

And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 

His  flock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 

Falsely  luxurious  will  not  Man  awake  ; 

And,  springing  from  the  bed  of  sloth,  enjoy 

The  cool,  the  fragrant,  and  the  silent  hour, 

To  meditation  due  and  sacred  song  ? 

For  is  their  aught  in  sleep  can  charm  the  wise  ? 

To  lie  in  dead  oblivion,  losing  half 

The  fleeting  moments  of  too  short  a  life,— 

Total  extinction  of  the  enlightened  soul ! 

Or  else  to  feverish  vanity  alive, 

Wildered  and  tossing  through  distempered  dreams? 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  219 

AY  ho  would  in  such  a  gloomy  state  remain 

than  nature  craves;  when  every  Muse, 
And  every  blooming  pleasure  wait  without, 
To  bless  the  wildly  devious  morning  walk? 
But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  King  of  Day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  cast.     The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindling  a/ure,  and  the  mountain's  brow 
Illumed  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.     Lo,  now,  apparent  all, 
Aslant  the  dew-liright  earth,  and  colored  air, 
He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad, 
And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnished  plays 
On  rocks,  and  hills,  and  towers,  and  wandering  streams, 
High-gleaming  from  afar.     Prime  checrer,  Light! 
Of  all  material  beings  first  and  best ! 
Klllux  divine  I  Nature's  resplendent  robe  ! 
Without  whose  vesting  beauty  all  were  wrapt 
In  unessential  gloom;  and  thou,  0  Sun  ! 
Soul  of  surrounding  worlds !  in  whom  best  seen 
Shines  out  thy  Maker  ?  may  I  sing  of  thee  1 

y  thy  secret,  strong,  attractive  force, 
As  with  a  chain  indissoluble  bound, 
Thy  system  rolls  entire ;  from  the  far  bourn 
Of  utmost  Saturn,  wheeling  wide  his  round 
Of  thirty  years,  to  Mercury,  whose  disk 

irce  be  caught  by  philosophic  eye, 
Lost  in  the  near  effulgence  of  thy  blaze. 

Informer  of  the  planetary  train  ! 

Without  whose  quickening  glance  their  cumbrous  orbs 
"\Yero  brute  unlovely  mass,  inert  and  dead, 
And  not,  as  now,  the  green  abodes  of  life ; 
How  many  forms  of  being  wait  on  thcr. 
Inhaling  spirit  I  from  the  unfettered  mind, 
By  thee  sublimed,  down  to  the  daily  race, 
The  mixing  myriads  of  thy  letting  beam, 

The  vegetable  world  is  also  thine, 
Parent  of  Seasons !  who  the  pomp  precede 
That  waits  thy  throne,  as  through  thy  vast  domain, 
Annual,  along  the  bright  ecliptic  road. 
In  world-rejoicing  st:r  j  sublime. 

Mi-antime  the  expecting  nations,  circled  gay, 
"With  all  the  various  tribes  of  foodful  earth, 
Implore  thy  bounty,  or  send  grateful  up 
A  common  hymn ;  while,  round  thy  beaming  car 
High-seen,  the  Seasons,  lead,  in  sprightly  dance 
Harmonious  knit,  the  rosy-fi:i.uen-d  Hours, 
The  Zephyrs  floating  loose,  the  timely  Rains, 
Of  bloom  etherial,  the  light-footed  Dews, 
And,  softened  into  joy,  the  surly  Storms. 
These,  in  successive  turn  with  lavish  hand, 
Shower  every  beauty,  every  fragrance  shower, 
Herl'  ;ill,  kindling  at  thy  touch, 

From  land  to  land  is  flushed  the  vernal  year. 


220  THE   LADIES'  READER. 


VALLEY  OF  MEXICO— WILLIAM  H.  PRESCOTT. 

THE  troops,  refreshed  by  a  night's  rest,  succeeded,  early  on 
the  following  day,  in  gaining  the  crest  of  the  sierra  of  Ahualco, 
which  stretches  like  a  curtain  between  the  two  great  mountains 
on  the  north  and  south.  Their  progress  was  now  compara- 
tively easy,  and  they  marched  forward  with  a  buoyant  step  as 
they  felt  they  were  treading  the  soil  of  Montezuma. 

They  had  not  advanced  fkr,  when,  turning  an  angle  of  the 
sierra,  they  suddenly  came  on  a  view  which  more  than  com- 
pensated the  toils  of  the  preceding  day.  It  was  that  of  the 
Valley  of  Mexico,  or  Tenochtitlan,  as  more  commonly  called  by 
the  natives ;  which,  with  its  picturesque  assemblage  of  water, 
woodland,  and  cultivated  plains,  its  shining  cities  and  shadowy 
hills,  was  spread  out  like  some  gay  and  gorgeous  panorama  before 
them.  In  the  highly  rarefied  atmosphere  of  these  upper  regions, 
even  remote  objects  have  a  brilliancy  of  coloring  and  a  distinct- 
ness of  outline  which  seem  to  annihilate  distance.  Stretching 
far  away  at  their  feet  were  seen  noble  forests  of  oak,  sycamore, 
and  cedar,  and  beyond,  yellow  fields  of  maize  and  the  tower- 
ing maguey,  intermingled  with  orchards  and  blooming  gardens ; 
for  flowers,  in  such  demand  for  their  religious  festivals,  were 
even  more  abundant  in  this  populous  valley  than  in  other  parts 
of  Anahuac.  In  the  centre  of  the  great  basin  were  beheld  the 
lakes,  occupying  then  a  much  larger  portion  of  its  surface  than 
at  present ;  their  borders  thickly  studded  with  towns  and  ham- 
lets, and,  in  the  midst — like  some  Indian  empress  with  her  cor- 
onal of  pearls — the  fair  city  of  Mexico,  with  her  white  towers 
and  pyramidal  temples,  reposing,  as  it  were,  on  the  bosom  of 
the  waters,  the  far-famed  "  Venice  of  the  Aztecs."  High  over 
all  rose  the  royal  hill  of  Chapoltepec,  the  residence  of  the  Mex- 
ican monarchs,  crowned  with  the  same  grove  of  gigantic  cy- 
presses, which  at  this  day  fling  their  broad  shadows  over  the 
land.  In  the  distance  beyond  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake,  and 
nearly  screened  by  intervening  foliage,  was  seen  a  shining 
speck,  the  rival  capital  of  Tezcuco,  and,  still  farther  on,  the  dark 
belt  of  porphyry,  girdling  the  Valley  around  like  a  rich  set- 
ting which  nature  had  devised  for  the  fairest  of  her  jewels. 

Such  was  the  beautiful  vision  which  broke  on  the  eyes  of  the 
conquerors.  And  even  now,  when  so  sad  a  change  has  come 
over  the  scene ;  when  the  stately  forests  have  been  laid  low, 


TILK   LADIES'  READER.  221 

A 

and  the  soil,  unsheltered  from  the  fierce  radiance  of  a  tropical 
sun,  is  in  many  places  abandoned  to  sterility ;  when  the  waters 
have  retired,  leaving  a  broad  and  ghastly  margin  white  with 
thf  incrustation  of  salts,  while  the  cities  and  hamlets  on  their 
borders  have  mouldered  into  ruins;  even  now  that  desolation 
broods  over  the  landscape,  so  indestructible  are  the  lines  of 
beauty  which  nature  lias  traced  on  its  features,  that  no  traveler, 
I  however  cold,  can  gaze  on  them  with  any  other  emotions  than 

of  astonishment  and  rapture. 

What,  then,  must  have  been  the  emotions  of  the  Spaniards, 
when,  after  •working  their  toilsome  way  into  the  upper  air,  the 
cloudy  tabernacle  parted  before  their  eyes,  and  they  beheld 
these  fair  scenes  in  all  their  pristine  magnificence  and  beauty ! 
It  was  like  the  spectacle  which  greeted  the  eyes  of  Moses  from 
the  Mimmit  of  1'isgah,  and,  in  the  warm  glow  of  their  feelings, 
they  cried  out,  "It  is  the  promised  land !" 


BAILLIE. 

Is  tliero  a  man,  that,  from  some  lofty  steep, 
Views  in  his  wide  survey  the  boundless  deep, 
AVI luii  its  vast  waters,  lined  with  sun  and  shade, 
"\Vave  beyond  w;ive  in  serried  distance  fade 
To  the  pale  sky; — or  views  it,  dimly  si 
Ti:"  shifting  screens  of  drifted  mist  between, 

Imjre  cloud  dilates  its  sable  form, 
AVhen  grandly  curtain'd  by  the  approaching  storm, 
Who  feels  not  his  awed  soul  with  wonder  rise 
To  Him  whoso  power  created  sea  and  skies, 
Mountains  and  deserts,  giving  to  the  sight 
The  wonders  of  the  day  and  of  the  night  ? 
But  let  some  fleet  be  seen  in  warlike  pride, 
AVI  lose  stately  ships  the  restless  billows  ride, 
AVlule  each,  with  lofty  masts  and  brightening  sheen 

ir  spread  sails  moves  like  a  vested  queen ; — 
Or  rather,  be  some  distant  bark,  astray, 

like  a  pilgrim  on  his  lonely  way, 
Holding  its  steady  course  from  port  and  shore, 
A  form  speck,  and  seen  no  more — 

How  doth  the  pride,  the  sympathy,  the  flame, 
Of  human  fei-ling  stir  his  thrilling  frame? 
'•  O  Thou !  whose  mandate  dust  inert  obey'd, 
AVhat  is  this  creature  man  whom  thou  hast,  jnn.de?" 

'!'>s'  shop-,  whoso  crowded  strand 
Bore  priests  and  nobles  of  the  land, 


222  .  THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 

* 

And  rustic  hinds  and  townsmen  trim, 
And  harness'd  soldiers  stern  and  grim, 
And  lowly  maids  and  dames  of  pride, 
And  infants  by  their  mother's  side — 
The  boldest  seaman  stood  that  e'er 
Did  bark  or  ship  through  tempest  steer ; 
And  wise  as  bold,  and  good  as  wise ; 
The  magnet  of  a  thousand  eyes, 
That,  on  his  form  and  features  cast, 
His  noble  mien  and  simple  guise, 
In  wonder  seem'd  to  look  their  last. 
A  form  which  conscious  worth  is  gracing, 
A  face  where  hope  the  lines  effacing 
Of  thought  and  care,  bestow'd,  in  truth, 
To  the  quick  eye's  imperfect  tracing, 
The  look  and  air  of  youth. 

Who,  in  his  lofty  gait,  and  high 

Expression  of  the  enlighten'd  eye, 

Had  recognized,  in  that  bright  hour, 

The  disappointed  suppliant  of  dull  power, 

Who  had  in  vain  of  states  and  kings  desired 

The  pittance  for  his  vast  emprise  required  ? — 

The  patient  sage,  who,  by  his  lamp's  faint  light, 

O'er  chart  and  map  spent  the  long  silent  night  ? — 

The  man  who  meekly  fortune's  buffets  bore, 

Trusting  in  One  alone,  whom  heaven  and  earth  adore  I 

Another  world  is  in  his  mind, 

Peopled  with  creatures  of  his  kind, 

With  hearts  to  feel,  with  minds  to  soar, 

Thoughts  to  consider  and  explore  ; 

Souls  who  might  find,  from  trespass  shriven, 

Virtue  on  earth  and  joy  in  heaven. 

"That  power  divine,  whom  storms  obey," 

(Whisper'd  his  heart,)  a  leading  star, 

Will  guide  him  on  his  blessed  way ; 

Brothers  to  join  by  £ite  divided  far. 

Yain  thoughts !  which  heaven  doth  but  ordain 

In  part  to  be,  the  rest,  alas !  how  vain  ! 

But  hath  there  lived  of  mortal  mould, 
Who  fortunes  with  his  thoughts  could  hold 
An  even  race !     Earth's  greatest  sou 
That  e'er  earned  fame,  or  empire  won, 
Hath  but  fulfill' d,  within  a  narrow  scope, 
A  stinted  portion  of  his  ample  hope. 
With  heavy  sigh  and  look  depress' d 
The  greatest  men  will  sometimes  hear 
The  story  of  their  acts  address' d 
To  the  young  stranger's  wondering  ear, 
And  check  the  half-swoln  tear. 


11  IK   LAI UKS'   UKADER.  223 

Is  ii  or  modesty  or  pride 

Which  may  not  open  praiso  abide? 

Xi>:   read  his  iinvard  thoughts:   they  tell, 

His  deeds  of  lame  he  prizes  well. 

But  ah  !  they  in  his  fancy  stand, 

As  relics  of  a  blighted  ba*d. 

Who.  lost  to  man's  approving  sight, 

Have  perished  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

t  the  glorious  light  of  day 
Had  glitter'd  on  their  bright  array. 
His  mightiest  feat  had  once  another, 
Of  high  imagination  born — 
A  loftier  and  a  noble  brother, 
From  d«'ar  -urn ; 

And  she,  for  those  \vh<>  an-  not.  .-• 

-like  Uadiel,  weeps. 


N.-CVW 

Ye  powers  who  rule  the  tongue, — if  such  th- 
And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 

.-•  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate — 
A  du- 1  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 
Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite; 

man  is  always  in  the  right : 
I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 

.  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare. 
And,  when  1  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out, 
—"To  be  sure— no  doubt!" 
Dubious  is  such  a  scrupulous,  good  man — 
Yes — you  may  catch  him  tripping,  if  you  can. 
He  would  not,  with  a  peremptory  tone, 
i.oso  upon  his  face  his  own; 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow, 
He  humbly  hopes— presumes — it  maybe  so. 

.  idenee.  if  he  were  called  by  law 
To  swear  to  some  enormity  ho  saw, 
For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief. 
Would  hang  an  honest  man,  and  save  a  thief. 
Tin-oii-li  eo<i.~t;,nt  dread  of  giving  truth  offence, 

all  his  hearers  in  suspense ; 
Knows  what  he  knows  as  if  ho  knew  it  not; 
AVhat  lie  remembers  seems  to  have  forgot; 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 
Centering,  at  la.-i.  in  having  none  at  all. 

A  story,  in  which  native  humor  P 
Js  often  useful,  always  entertains: 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side. 


224  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

May  furnish  illustration,  well  applied ; 

But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 

Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 

'Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  earth, 

To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth, 

And  echo  conversations,  dull  and  dry, 

Embellished  with,  "He  said,"  and  "So  said  I." 

At  every  interview  their  route  the  same, 

The  repetition  makes  attention  lame : 

We  bustle  up,  with  unsuccessful  speed, 

And,  in  the  saddest  part,  cry,  "  Droll  indeed !" 

Lo !  the  plain  eater,  whose  untutor'd  taste, 

Finds  health  in  salads  and  in  homely  paste ; 

His  tongue  proud  science  never  taught  to  lave 

In  charbone  cream,  or  gravy's  poignant  wave. 

Yet  simple  cook'ry  piles  his  earthen  plate 

With  England's  honest  beef,  an  humble  treat. 

Guiltless  of  ortolans  his  spit  whirls  round, 

Nor  catsup  stains  his  kitchen's  wholesome  ground, 

Where  no  disguise  affronts  the  genuine  meal, 

Nor  Chloe  tortures  salmon  into  veal. 

To  eat,  contents  his  hunger's  nat'ral  call, 

He  chews  no  latent  gout  in  forc'd-meat  ball ; 

But  throws  to  faithful  Tray  his  dinner  down, 

Th'  applauded  beef 's  reversionary  bone. 

Come  nicer  thou,  come,  let  thy  palate  try, 

'Gainst  Moll's  plum-pudding,  Chloe's  lobster-pie. 

In  every  dish  find  some  important  fault, 

The  broth  wants  relish,  and  the  edge-bone  salt. 

Condemn  each  joint  not  dress'd  by  learned  rule, 

Yet  cry,  if  hunger  fails,  that  Moll's  a  fool. 

If  fricassees  employ  not  all  her  skill. 

Studious  to  nourish,  not  expert  to  kill, 

Snatch  from  her  care  the  hangers,  and  the  hooks 

Redress  her  dressings,  be  the  cook  of  cooks. 


SLEIGHING  SONG-JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

Oh  swift  we  go,  o'er  the  fleecy  snow, 
When  moonbeams  sparkle  round ; 

When  hoofs  keep  time  to  music's  chime, 
As  merrily  on  we  bound. 

On  a  winter's  night,  when  hearts  are  light, 

And  health  is  on  the  wind, 
We  loose  the  rein  and  sweep  the  plain 

And  leave  our  cares  behind. 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  225 

With  a  laugh  and  song,  we  glide  along 

Across  the  fleeting  snow ; 
With  friends  beside,  how  swift  we  ride 

On  the  beautiful  track  below! 

Oh.  the  racing  sea  has  joy  for  me, 

When  gale  and  tempests  roar; 
But  give  me  the  speed  of  a  foaming  steed, 

Arid  I'll  ask  for  the  waves  no  more. 


srNKISE  AND  SOLITUDE-WoBDswonTH. 

The  cock  had  crowed,  and  now  the  eastern  sky 
Was  kindling,  not  unseen,  from  humble  copse 
And  open  Held,  through  which  the  pathway  wound, 
And  homeward  led  my  steps.     Magnificent 
The  morning  rose,  in  memorable  pomp, 
Glorious  as  e'er  I  had  beheld — in  front, 
The  sea  lay  laughing  at  a  distance ;  near, 

-»lid  mountains  shone,  bright  as  the  clouds, 
drain-tinctured,  drenched  in  empyrean  light: 
And  in  the  meadows  and  the  lower  grounds 
Was  all  the  sweetness  of  a  common  dawn — 

vapors,  and  the  melody  of  birds, 
And  laborers  going  forth  to  till  the  fields. 

When  from  our  better  selves  we  have  too  long 
Been  parted  by  the  hurrying  world,  and  droop, 
Sick  of  its  business,  of  its  pleasure  tired, 
How  gracious,  how  benign,  is  Solitude; 
How  potent  a  mere  image  of  her  sway; 
Most  potent  when  impressed  upon  the  mind 
With  an  appropriate  human  centre — hermit, 

in  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness; 
Votary  (in  vast  eathedral,  where  no  foot 
ling,  where  no  other  face  is  seen) 
Kneeling  at  prayers;   or  watchman  on  the  top 
Of  lighthouse,  beaten  by  Atlantic  waves ; 
Or  as  the  soul  of  that  great  Power  is  met 
Sometimes  embodied  on  ;1  public  road, 
When,  for  the  night  desert*"!,  it  assumes 
A  character  of  quiet  more  profound 
Than  pathless  wastes. 

15 


22S  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


PUDDLEFORD  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.-H.  H.  EILET. 

THE  township  of  Puddleford  was  located  in  the  far  west, 
and  was,  and  is  unknown,  I  presume,  to  a  large  portion  of  my 
readers.  It  has  never  been  considered  of  sufficient  importance 
by  atlas-makers  to  be  designated  by  them ;  and  yet  men,  women, 
and  children  live  and  die  in  Pnddleford.  Its  population  helps 
make  up  the  census  of  the  United  States  every  ten  years ;  it 
helps  make  governors,  congress-men,  presidents.  Puddleford 
does,  and  fails  to  do,  a  great  many  things,  just  like  the  'rest  of 
mankind,'  and  yet,  who  knows  and  cares  anything  about  Pud- 
dleford? 

Puddleford  was  well  enough  as  a  township  of  land,  and  beau- 
tiful was  its  scenery.  It  was  spotted  with  bright,  clear  lakes, 
reflecting  the  trees  that  stooped  over  them;  and  straight  through 
its  centre  flowed  a  majestic  river,  guarded  by  hills  on  either 
side.  The  village  of  Puddleford  (there  was  a  village  of  Puddle- 
ford,  too)  stood  huddled  in  a  gorge  that  opened  up  from  the 
river ;  and  through  it,  day  and  night,  a  little  brook  ran  tink- 
ling along,  making  music  around  the  '  settlement.'  The  houses 
in  Puddleford  were  very  shabby  indeed ;  I  am  very  sorry  to  be 
compelled  to  make  that  fact  public,  but  they  were  very  shabby. 
Some  were  built  of  logs,  and  some  of  boards,  and  some  were 
never  exactly  built  at  all,  but  came  together  through  a  combi- 
nation of  circumstances  which  the  "  oldest  inhabitant"  has  never 
been  able  to  explain.  The  log-houses  were  just  like  log-houses 
in  every  place  else ;  for  no  person  has  yet  been  found  with  im- 
pudence enough  to  suggest  an  improvement.  A  pile  of  logs, 
laid  up  and  packed  in  mud;  a  mammoth  fire-place,  with  a 
chimney-throat  as  large ;  a  lower  story  and  a  garret,  connected 
in  one  corner  by  a  ladder,  called  "  Jacob's  ladder,"  are  its  es- 
sentials. A  very  few  ambitious  persons  in  Puddleford  had,  it 
is  true,  attempted  to  build  frame-houses,  but  there  was  never 
one  entirely  finished  yet.  Some  of  them  had  erected  a  frame 
only,  when,  their  purses  having  failed,  the  enterprise  was  left 
at  the  mercy  of  the  storms.  Others  had  covered  their  frames ; 
and  one  citizen,  old  Squire  Longbow,  had  actually  finished  off 
two  rooms ;  and  this,  in  connection  with  the  office  of  justice 
of  the  peace,  gave  him  a  standing  and  influence  in  the  settle- 
ment almost  omnipotent. 

The  reader  discovers,  of  course,  that  Puddleford  was  a  very 


Till-:   LADIKS    READER,  227 

miscellaneous-looking  place.  It  appeared  unfinished,  and  ever 
likely  to  be.  It  did  really  seem  that  the  houses,  and  cabins, 
and  sheds,  and  pig-sties,  had  been  sown  up  and  down  the 
.  as  their  owners  sowed  ^  heat.  The  only  harmony  about 
tin'  pl.-n-c  \vas  the  harmony  of  confusion. 

I'uddleford  had  a  population  made  up  of  all  sorts  of  people, 
who  had  been,  from  ;i  variety  of  causes,  thrown  together  just 
then-  ;  and  every  person  owned  a  number  of  dogs,  so  that  it 
was  very  difficult  to  determine  which  were  numerically  the 
Mr.Mi^e.st,  the  inhabitants  or  the  dogs.  There  were  great 
droves  of  cows  owned,  too,  which  were  in  the  habit  of  congre- 
gating every  morning,  and  marching  SOUK;  miles  to  a  distant 
!iiar>h  to  feed  to  the  jingle  of  tke  hells  they  wore  on  their  necks. 

I'uddleford  was  not  destitute  of  a  church,  not  by  any  means. 

Tin-  "  log  chapel,"  when  I  first  became  acquainted  with  the 

.   was  an  ancient  building.      It   was  erected  at  a  period 

almost    as    early    as   the   tavern — not   quite — temporal    wants 

be  early  settlers  closer  than  spiritual. 

This,  reader,  i- a  skeleton  view  of  Puddleford,  as  it  existed 
I  fir.-t  knew  it.  Just  out  of  this  village,  some  time  dur- 
ing the.  l-'i^t  ten  years,  I  took  possession  of  a  large  tract  of 
land,  called  "  hnrr-oak  opening,"  that  is,  a  wide,  sweeping 
plain,  thinly  clad  with  burr-oaks.  Few  sights  in  nature  are 
more  beautiful.  The  eye  roams  over  these  parks  unobstructed 
by  undergrowth,  the  trees  above,  and  the  sleeping  shadows  on 
the  grass  below. 

Tin-  first  time  I  looked  upon  this  future  home  of  mine,  It 
lay  calm  and  bright,  bathed  in  the  warm  sun  of  a  May  morn- 
iii'_r,  and  tilled  with  birds.  The  buds  were  just  breaking  into 
nid  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  wild-wood  fragrance  of 
spring.  Piles  of  mosses,  soft  as  velvet,  were  scattered  about 
"Wild  vi. ili-ts  grouped  in  dusters,  the  white  and  red  lupin,  the 
mountain  pink,  and  thousands  of  other  tiny  flowers,  bright  as 
sparks  of  fife,  mingled  in  confusion.  It  was  alive  with  birds; 
the  brown  thra<her,  the  robin,  the  blue  jay  poured  forth  their 
music  to  the  very  top  of  their  lungs.  The  thrasher,  with  his 
brown  dress  and  very  <|uiz/ical  look,  absolutely  revelled  in  a 
luxury  of  melody.  He  mocked  all  the  birds  about  him.  Now 
he  ws  <  a  blue-jay  as  blue-jay  himself,  and  screamed  as 

loud:  but  suddenly  bouncing  around  on  a  limb,  and  slowly 
;iin<4  "'it  his  wings,  he  died  away  in  ;i  most  pathetic 
strain;  t  hen,  darting  into  another  tree,  and  turning  his  saucy 
eye  inquisitively  down,  he  rattled  of}'  a  chorus  or  two,  that  I 


228  THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 

might  know  lie  was  not  so  sad  a  fellow  after  all.  Now,  his 
soft,  flute-like  notes  fairly  melted  in  his  throat ;  then  he  drew 
out  a  lonjy  violin  strain,  the  whole  length  of  his  bow  ;  then  a 
blast  on  his  trumpet  roused  all  the  birds.  He  was  "  everything 
by  turns,  and  nothing  long."  After  completing  his  perform- 
ance, away  he  went,  and  his  place,  in  a  moment  almost,  was 
occupied  by  another,  repeating  the  medley,  for  the  whole  wood 
was  alive  with  them. 

Scores  of  blue-jays,  in  the  tops  of  the  trees,  were  picking 
away  at  the  tender  buds.  The  robin,  that  household  bird,  first 
loved  by  our  children,  was  also  here.  Sitting  alone  and  apart, 
in  a  reverie,  and  blowing  occasionally  his  mellow  pipe,  he 
seemed  to  exist  only  for  his  own  comfort,  and  to  forget  that  he 
was  one  of  the  choristers  of  the  wood.  AVoodpeckers  wero 
flitting  hither  and  thither ;  troops  of  quails  whistled  in  the 
distance ;  the  oriole  streamed  out  his  bright  light  through  the 
green  branches ;  there  was  a  winnowing  of  wings,  a  dashing 
of  leaves,  as  birds  came  rushing  in  and  out.  It  was  their  fes- 
tival. 

Reader,  such  was  the  scene  presented  to  my  eye  the  day  I 
first  looked  upon  the  piece  of  wild  land  upon  which  I  finally 
settled  and  improved.  I  had  just  arrived  from  an  Eastern  vil- 
lage, where  I  was  born,  and  "  brought  up,"  as  the  phrase  is. 
A  somewhat  broken  fortune,  and  breaking  health  had  driven 
me  from  it,  with  a  moderate  family,  to  seek  a  spot  elsewhere ; 
and  I  resolved  to  try  the  Great  West,  that  paradise  (if  the  word 
of  people  who  never  saw  it,  is  to  be  taken)  where  the  surplus 
population  of  a  portion  of  the  world  have  found  a  home. 

The  change  was  great.  But  great  as  it  was,  I  resolved  to 
endure  it.  So  at  it  I  went.  I  procured  "  help,"  girdled  the 
trees,  put  a  breaking  team  of  twelve  yoke  of  cattle  on  the 
ground,  tore  it  up,  fenced  the  land,  raised  a  log-house,  and  in 
the  fall  I  had  a  crop  of  wheat  growing,  the  withered  oak-trees 
standing  guard  over  it.  My  family,  consisting  of  a  wife  and 
three  children,  a  boy  of  eight,  and  two  girls  of  twelve  and 
ten,  were  removed  to  their  new  quarters,  and  I  had  thus  fairly 
begun  the  world  again,  and  all  things  were  as  new  about  me  as 
if  I  had  just  been  born  into  it. 

During  the  summer,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  the 
general  character  of  the  inhabitants  of  Puddleford,  and  its  sur- 
rounding country  population.  Like  most  Western  settlements, 
it  was  made  up  of  all  kinds  of  materials,  all  sorts  of  folks, 
holding  every  opinion.  More  than  a  dozen  States  had  contri- 


TIIK    LAWKS1   liKADEK.  229 

1-uted  to  make  up  its  people.  Society  was  exceedingly  miscel- 
laneous. The  keen  Yankee,  the  obstinate  Pennsylvanian,  and 
the  reckless  Southerner  were  there.  Each  one  of  these  per- 
sons had  brought,  along  with  him  his  early  habits,  and  associa- 
tions— his  own  views  of  business,  law  and  religion.  "When 
thrown  toother  on  public  questions,  this  composition  boiled 
up  like  a  mixture  of  salts  and  soda.  Factions,  of  course,  were 
formed  among  those,  whose  early  education  and  habits  were 
congenial  ;  divisions  were  created,  and  a  war  of  prejudice  and 
•  •pinion  went  on  from  month  to  month,  and  year  to  year.  The 
Ncw-KiiLrland  Yankee  stood  about  ten  years  ahead  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania <  uTinan,  in  all  his  ideas  of  progress,  while  the  latter  stood 
1  and  sullen,  attached  to  the  customs  of  his  fathers. 

bor  uvncral  feature  consisted  in  this,  that  there  was  no  per- 
manency to  society.  The  inhabitants  were  constantly  changing, 
pouring  out  and  in,  like  the  waters  of  a  river;  so  that  a  complete 
revolution  took  place  every  four  or  five  years.  Every  body  who 
remained  in  1'uddleford  expected  to  remove  somewhere  else  very 
soon.  They  were  merely  sojourners,  not  residents.  There  was 
no  attachment  to,  or  veneration  for  the  past  of  Puddleford,  be- 
cause Puddleford  had  no  past.  The  ties  of  memory  reached  to 
older  States.  There  stood  the  church  that  sheltered  the  infant 

-  of  Puddleford's  population,  and  there  swung  the  bell  that 
tolled  their  fathers  and  fathers'  fathers  to  the  tomb.  There 
\va<;  the  long  Hue  of  graves,  running  back  a  hundred  years, 
where  the  sister  of  yesterday,  ami  the  ancestor  whose  virtues 
were  only  known  through  tradition,  were  buried.  There  tot- 
tered the  old  humot'-ad  which  had  passed  through  the  family 

mentions, filled  with  heir-looms  that  had  become  sacred. 
The  school-house  was  tin- re,  where  the  village  boys  shouted 

her.  Looking  ba«-k  from  a  new  country,  where  all  is  con- 
fusion, to  an  old  one,  where  liguivs  have,  the  stability  of  a 
painting,  objects  which  were  once  trivial,  start  out  upon  the 
canvas  in  bolder  relief.  The  venerable,  gray-headed  pastor, 
who  appeared  regularly  in  the  village  pulpit  for  half  a  century, 
to  impart  the  word  of  life,  rises  in  the  memory,  and  stands 
fixed  there  like  a  statue.  The  quaint  cut  of  his  coat,  the  neat 
ti«- of  his  neck-cloth,  the  spectacles  resting  on  the  tip  of  his 
nose,  hi>  hums  and  haws,  his  eye  of  reproof,  his  gestures  of 

ance,  are  now  living  things — are  preaching  still.  We 
see  again  the  changing  crowd,  that  year  after  year  went  in  and 
out  of  that,  holy  p|;nv ;  the  spot,  where  the  old  deacon  sat,  his 
head  resting  on  a  piHflr,  his  tranquil  face  turned  upward,  his 


230  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

mouth  open,  enjoying  a  doze  as  lie  listened  to  the  sermon.  We 
recollect  the  gay  bridal,  the  solemn  funeral,  the  buoyant  face 
of  the  one,  the  still,  cold  one  of  the  other.  We  even  remem- 
ber the  lame  old  sexton,  who  rang  the  bell,  and  went  limping 
up  to  the  burying  ground,  with  a  spade  upon  his  shoulder. 
Even  he,  of  no  consequence  when  seen  every  day,  is  trans- 
formed by  distance,  and  mellowed  by  memory  into  a  real  be- 
ing. And  then  there  are  the  hills  and  streams,  and  waterfalls, 
that  shed  their  music  through  our  boyish  souls,  until  they 
became  a  part  of  our  very  existence.  No  man  ever  lived  who 
entirely  forgot  these  things,  suppressed  though  they  might  be, 
by  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  maturer  years.  And  no  circum- 
stance so  likely  to  bring  them  all  up,  glowing  afresh,  as  a  re- 
moval to  a  new  country.  Of  course,  no  one  was  attached  to 
Puddleford,  as  a  locality,  any  more  than  the  wandering  Arab 
is  attached  to  the  particular  spot  where  he  pitches  his  tent  and 
feeds  his  camels. 

But  I  will  not  go  into  particulars  with  the  Puddlefordians  at 
present.  During  the  summer,  my  acquaintance  with  Venison 
Styles  had  ripened  into  a  deeper  affection  for  the  old  hunter. 
I  accepted  his  invitation  to  visit  him,  and  found  him  sheltered 
in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and  nestled  in  a  valley,  his  hut 
overshadowed  by  great  trees,  which  were  filled  with  birds 
pouring  forth  their  songs.  A  little  brook  tinkled  clown  the 
slope  by  his  hut,  singing  all  kinds  of  woodland  tunes,  as  the 
breeze  swelled  and  died  along  its  banks.  The  squirrels  were 
chatting  their  nonsense,  and  the  rolling  drum  of  the  partridge 
was  heard  almost  at  his  very  door. 

Venison  was  a  hunter,  a  fisher,  and  a  trapper.  The  inside 
walls  of  his  cabin  were  hung  about  with  rifles,  shot-guns,  and 
fishing  rods,  which  had  been  accumulating  for  years.  Deer- 
horns  and  skins  lay  scattered  here  and  there,  the  trophies  of 
the  chase.  Seines  for  lakes,  and  scoop-nets  for  smaller  streams 
were  drying  outside  upon  the  trees. 

Venison  kept  around  him  a  brood  of  lazy,  lounging,  good- 
for-nothing  boys,  of  all  ages,  about  half-clothed,  who  followed 
the  business  of  their  father.  This  young  stock  were  growing 
up  as  he  had  grown,  to  occupy  somewhere  their  father's  posi- 
tion, and  lead  his  life.  They  lived  just  as  well  as  the  hounds, 
for  all  stood  on  an  equality  in  the  family.  These  ragamuffins 
were  perfect  masters  of  natural  history.  There  was  not  an  in- 
stinct or  peculiarity  belonging  to  the  denizens  of  the  woods 
and  streams  which  they  did  not  perfectly  understand.  They 


THK  LAI -IKS'   RKAPKR.  231 

...1  to  have  penetrated  the  secrecy  of  animal  life,  and 
tat  homed  it  throughout.  Birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish  were  com- 
pletely within  their  power  ;  and  there  was  a  kind  of  matter-of- 
course  success  with  them  in  their  capture  that  was  absolutely 
provoking  to  a  civilized  hunter. 


THU  FAMINE.— FROM  HIAWATHA— LONQFELLOV.-. 

O  the  lonir  and  dreary  "Winter! 
0  the  cold  and  orael  Winter ! 
;•  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
K\vr  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape. 
Fell  the  covering  snow  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  ho  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  irhastly.  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  n<>t  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

0  the  famine  and  the  fever! 
0  the  wasting  of  the  famine ! 
0  the  blasting  of  the  fever! 
0  the  wailing  of  the  children! 

0  the  anguish  of  the  women ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished; 
Hungry  was  tin-  air  around  them, 
Huir_rry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  tfs«-  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them  ; 

Into  Hiawatha's  \vi-\vam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 

icsts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
led  not  to  be  invi 
Did  not  parley  at,  the  doorway. 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Lauirhinjjr  Watfr: 
Looked  wi  ami  hollow 

At  fcb  Phg  \Vater. 

And  the  fun-most  said  :   "  Hchold  me  1 

1  am  Famine.  liukadawin  !" 

And  the  other  said  :    "  IMiold  mo! 
I  am  Fever.   A  lik'  ^••'•v/iii !'? 


232  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered. 

Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer  ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha ; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

"  G-itche  Manito,  the  Mighty!" 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"  Give  your  children  food,  0  father ! 
Give  us  food  or  we  must  perish ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  !" 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
"  Minnehaha !  Minnehaha ! " 
All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 
Through  the  shadows  of  whose  thickets, 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
I  will  follow  you,  my  husband !" 
In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy 'guests  that  watched  her, 
With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 
She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  233 

"  Hark !"  she  said ;  "  I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance  1" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"'Tis  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees!" 
"Look!"  she  said ;  "I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  mo  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs;" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"'Tis  the  smoke  that  waves  and  beckons  1" 
"Ah!"  she  said,  "  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness ! 
Hiawatha!   Hiawatha!'' 

And  the  deaolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 

i  way  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minm-haha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"Hiawatha!  Hiawatha!" 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted, 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 
•'Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin! 
Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are! 
Wahonowin !  "Wahonowin!" 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish, 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Ghook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minm-haha. 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  1  and  nights  ho  sat  there, 

As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 


234  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
"Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine, 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine  ; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"Farewell!"  said  he,  "Minnehaha I 
Farewell,  0  my  Laughing  Water ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
Ah1  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  I 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
"Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter!" 


ST.  AGNES-TENNYSON. 

i. 

Deep  on  the  convent*roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon ; 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  ; 

May  my  soul  follow  soon ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord. 


T1IK   LAWKS'   HKADKU.  '235 

Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  ray  bosom  lies. 


As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  0  Lord !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  you  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

in. 

Ik-  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors^ 

The  flashes  come  and  go ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride! 


THE  ABORIGINES  OF   AMKRICA.-MRs.  SIGOUKNEY. 

O'er  the  vast  regions  of  that  western  world 
Whose  lofty  mountains  hiding  in  the  clouds, 
Concealed  their  grandeur  and  their  wealth  so  long 
From  European  eyes,  the  Indian  roved 
Free  and  unconquered.     From  those  frigid  plains 
Struck  with  the  torpor  of  the  arctic  pole, 
To  where  Magellan  lifts  his  torch  to  light 
The  meeting  of  the  waters ;  from  the  shore 
Whose  smooth  green  line  the  broad  Atlantic  laves, 
To  the  rude  bonlcrs  <>f  that  rocky  strait 
Where  liaught/Asia  seems  to  stand  and  gaze 
On  the  new  continent,  the  Indian  reigned 


236  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Majestic  and  alone.     Fearless  he  rose, 
Firm  as  his  mountains;  like  his  rivers,  wild ; 
Bold  as  those  lakes  whose  wondrous  chain  controls 
His  northern  coast.     The  forest  and  the  wave 
Gave  him  his  food ;  the  slight  constructed  hut 
Furnished  his  shelter,  and  its  doors  spread  wide 
To  every  wandering  stranger.     There  his  cup, 
His  simple  meal,  his  lowly  couch  of  skins, 
"Were  hospitably  shared.     Rude  were  his  toils, 
And  rash  his  daring,  when  he  headlong  rushed 
Down  the  steep  precipice  to  seize  his  prey ; 
Strong  was  his  arm  to  bend  the  stubborn  bow, 
And  keen  his  arrow.     This  the  bison  knew, 
The  spotted  panther,  the  rough,  shaggy  bear, 
The  wolf  dark  prowling,  the  eye  piercing  lynx, 
The  wild  deer  bounding  through  the  shadowy  glade, 
And  the  swift  eagle,  soaring  high  to  make 
His  nest  among  the  stars.     Clothed  in  their  spoils 
He  dared  the  elements :  with  eye  sedate, 
f  Breasted  the  wintry  winds ;  o'er  the  white  heads 

Of  angry  torrents  steered  his  rapid  bark 
Light  as  their  foam ;  mounted  with  tireless  speed 
Those  slippery  cliffs,  where  everlasting  snows 
"Weave  their  dense  robes ;  or  laid  him  down  to  sleep 
Where  the  dread  thunder  of  the  cataract  lulled 
His  drowsy  sense.     The  dangerous  toils  of  war 
He  sought  and  loved.     Traditions,  and  proud  tales 
Of  other  days,  exploits  of  chieftains  bold, 
Dauntless  and  terrible,  the  warrior's  song, 
The  victor's  triumph — all  conspired  to  raise 
The  martial  spirit. . . . 

Oft  the  rude  wandering  tribes 
Rushed  on  to  battle.     Their  aspiring  chiefs, 
Lofty  and  iron-framed,  with  native  hue 
Strangel}1"  disguised  in  wild  and  glaring  tints, 
Frowned  like  some  Pictish  king.     The  conflict  raged 
Fearless  and  fierce,  mid  shouts  and  disarray, 
As  the  swift  lightning  urges  its  dire  shafts 
Through  clouds  and  darkness,  when  the  warring  blasts 
Awaken  midnight.     O'er  the  captive  foe 
Unsated  vengeance  stormed :  flame  and  slow  wounds 
Racked  the  strong  bonds  of  life ;  but  the  firm  soul 
Smiled  in  its  fortitude  to  mock  the  rage 
Of  its  tormentors ;  when  the  crisping  nerves 
Were  broken,  still  exulting  o'er  its  pain, 
To  rise  unmurmuring  to  its  father's  shades, 
Where  in  delightful  bowers  the  brave  and  just 

Rest  and  rejoice 

Yet  those  untutored  tribes 

Bound  with  their  stern  resolves  ajid  savage  deeds 
Some  gentle  virtues ;  as  beneath  the  gloom 
Of  overshadowing  forests  sweetly  springs 


THE  LADIES'   READER.  237 

The  unexpected  flower Their  uncultured  hearts 

(lave  a  strong  soil  lor  friendship,  that  bold  growth 

•Broils  alleet ion.  changeless,  pure, 
-•icrifieing.  counting  losses  light, 
Ami  yielding  lite  with  gladness.     By  its  side, 
Like  sister  plant,  sprang  ardent  Gratitude, 
Vivid,  perennial,  Graving  winter's  frost 
And  summer's  heat :  while  nursed  by  the  same  dews, 
Unbounded  reverence  for  the  form  of  age 
Struck  its  deep  root  spontaneous, . .  .With  pious  awe 
Their  eyes  uplifted  sought  the  hidden  path 
Of  the  Great  Spirit.     The  loud  midnight  storm, 
The  rush  of  mighty  waters,  the  deep  roll 
Of  thunder,  gave  his  voice ;  the  golden  sun, 
The  soft  effulgence  of  the  purple  morn, 
The  gentle  rain  distilling,  was  his  smile, 
Dispensing  good  to  .-ill.  ...In  various  forms  arose 
Their  superstitious  homage.     Some  with  blood 
Of  human  sacrifices  sought  to  appease 
That  auger  which  in  pestilence,  or  dearth, 
()r  famine,  stalked  ;  and  their  astonished  vales,  , 

Like  Carthaginian  altars,  frequent  drank 
The  horrible  libation.     Some,  with  fruits, 
Sweet  flowers,  ami  incense  of  their  choicest  herbs, 
Sought  to  propitiate  Him  whose  powerful  hand 
Unseen  sustained  them.     Some  with  mystic  rites, 
The  ark,  the  orison,  the  paschal  feast, 
Through  glimmering  tradition  seemed  to  bear, 
As  in  some  broken  vase,  the  smothered  coals 
Scattered  from  Jewish  altars. 


Till:  MIDXNJIIT  WIND.— 

I 

Mournfully!   0,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 
Like  some  sweet,  plaintive  melody 

Of  ages  long  gone  by  I 
It  speaks  a  tale  of  other  years — 

Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die — 
Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 

And  loves  that  mouldering  lie ! 

Mournfully!  0,  mournfully, 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan! 
It  stirs  son!'1  chord  of  memory 

In  each  dull,  heavy  tone; 
The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 

i  floating  thereupon — 
All.  all  my  fond  heart,  cherished 
•  ith  hath  made  it  lone. 


238  THE    LADIES'  READER. 

Mournfully!  0,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  swell, 
With  its  quaint,  pensive  minstrelsy, 

Hope's  passionate  farewell 
To  the  dreamy  joys  "of  early  years, 

Ere  yet  grief's  canker  fell 
On  the  heart's  bloom — ay !  well  may  tears 

Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 


TUBAL  CAIN— CIIAELES  MACKAY. 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might, 

In  the  days  when  earth  was  young ; 
By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright, 

The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung: 
And  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear, 
Till  the  sparks  rush'd  out  in  scarlet  showers, 

As  he  iashion'd  the  sword  and  spear. 
And  he  sang — "  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork ! 

Hurrah  for  the  spear  and  sword! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them  well, 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord !" 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one, 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire, 
And  each  one  pray'd  for  a  strong  steel  blade, 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire ; 
And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee, 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearls  and  gold, 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 
And  they  sang — "  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  hath  given  us  strength  anew ! 
Hurrah  for  the  smith,  hurrah  for  the  fire, 

And  hurrah  for  the  metal  true!" 

But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  his  heart. 

Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun ; 
And  Tubal  Cain  was  fill'd  with  pain 

For  the  evil  h$  had  done  ; 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind, 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they  shed, 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 
And  he  said — "Alas!  that  I  ever  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan, 
The  spear  and  the  sword,  for  men  whose  joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man !" 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  239 

Aud  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 

Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe ; 
And  his  hand  forbore  to  smite  the  ore, 

Ami  his  furnace  smouldered  low. 
But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright  courageous  eye, 
And  hared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  llanu-s  mounted  high. 
And  he  sang — "Hurrah  for  my  handiwork  1" 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air; 
"Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel  made," 

And  he  fashion'd  the  lirst  ploughshare. 

And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  join'd  their  hands, 
Hung  the  BWOrd  in  tin-  hall,  the  spear  on  the  wall, 

And  plough'd  the  willing  lands; 
And  sang — "  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain! 

Our  staunch  good  friend  is  he; 
And  for  the  ploughshare  and  the  plough, 

To  him  our  praise  shall  he. 
But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head, 

Or  a  tyrant  would  bo  lord — 
Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  plough, 

We'll  not  forget  the  sword  1" 


PESCIL  SKl-TCIIKS-TIIAT  (iK  NT  I.  KM  AX -Miss  LESLIE. 

ON  the  third  day,  wo  were  enabled  to  lay  our  course  with  a 
fair  wind  and  a  clear  sky;  the  coast  of  Cornwall  looking  like  a 
succession  of  low  white  clouds  ranged  along  the  edge  of  the 
northern  horizon.  Toward  evening  we  passed  the  Lizard,  to 
see  land  no  more  till  we  should  descry  it  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Atlantic.  As  Mr.  Funton  and  myself  leaned  over  the  tatl- 
i  ail.  and  saw  the  last  point  of  England  fade  dimly  from  our  view, 
we  thought,  with  iv_rivt,  of  the  shore  we  were  leaving  behind 
us,  and  of  much  that  we  had  seen,  and  known,  and  enjoyed  in 
that  country  of  which  all  that  remained  to  our  lingering  gaze 
I  dark  spot  so  distant  and  so  sin;. 11  as  to  be  scarcely  per- 
ceptible. Soon  we  could  discern  it  no  longer;  and  nothing  of 
Europe  was  now  left  to  us  but  the  indelible  recollections  that 
it  has  impressed  upon  our  minds.  We  turned  toward  the  re- 
gion of  the  descending  sun — 

"To  where  his  setting  splendors  burn 
I."  pon  the  western  sea-maid's  urn," 


240  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

and  we  vainly  endeavored  to  direct  all  our  thoughts  and  feelings 
toward  our  home  beyond  the  ocean — our  beloved  American 
home. 

On  that  night,  as  on  many  others,  when  our  ship  was  career- 
ing through  the  sea,  with  her  yards  squared,  and  her  sails  all 
trimmed  to  a  fresh  and  favoring  breeze,  while  we  sat  on  a  sofa 
in  the  lesser  cabin,  and  looked  up  through  the  open  skylight  at 
the  stars  that  seemed  flying  over  our  heads,  we  talked  of  the 
land  we  had  so  recently  quitted.  We  talked  of  her  people, 
who,  though  differing  from  ours  in  a  thousand  minute  particu- 
lars, are  still  essentially  the  same.  Our  laws,  our  institutions, 
our  manners,  and  our  customs  are  derived  from  theirs :  we  are 
benefited  by  the  same  arts,  we  are  enlightened  by  the  same 
sciences.  Their  noble  and  copious  language  is,  fortunately,  ours 
— their  Shakspeare  also  belongs  to  us ;  and  we  rejoice  that  we 
can  possess  ourselves  of  his  "thoughts  that  breathe  and  words 
that  burn"  in  all  their  original  freshness  and  splendor,  unob- 
scured  by  the  mist  of  translation.  Though  the  ocean  divides 
our  dwelling-places;  though  the  sword  and  the  cannon-shot 
have  sundered  the  bonds  that  once  united  us  to  her  dominion ; 
though  the  misrepresentations  of  traveling  adventurers  have 
done  much  to  foster  mutual  prejudices,  and  to  embitter  mutual 
jealousies,  still  we  share  the  pride  of  our  parent  in  the  glorious 
beings  she  can  number  among  the  children  of  her  island  home, 
for 

"  Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins," 

On  the  fourth  day  of  our  departure  from  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
we  found  ourselves  several  hundred  miles  from  land,  and  con- 
signed to  the  solitudes  of  that  ocean-desert,  "  dark-heaving — 
boundless — endless — and  sublime" — whose  travelers  find  no 
path  before  them,  and  leave  no  track  behind.  But  the  wind 
was  favorable,  the  sky  was  bright,  the  passengers  had  recovered 
their  health  and  spirits,  and,  for  the  first  time,  were  all  able  to 
present  themselves  at  the  dinner-table;  and  there  was  really 
what  might  be  termed  "  a  goodly  company." 

It  is  no  longer  the  custom  in  American  packet-ships  for  ladies 
to  persevere  in  what  is  called  a  sea-dress — that  is,  a  sort  of  dis- 
habille prepared  expressly  for  the  voyage.  Those  who  are  not 
well  enough  to  devote  some  little  time  and  attention  to  their 
personal  appearance,  rarely  come  to  the  general  table,  but  take 
their  meals  in  their  own  apartment.  The  gentlemen,  also,  pay 
as  much  respect  to  their  toilet  as  when  on  shore 


TllK   LAD1KS'  KKADEK.  241 

Our  passengers  were  not  too  numerous.     The  lesser  cabin 

appropriated  to  three  other  ladies  and  myself. 
Our  fourth  female-  passenger  was  Mrs.  Cummings,  a  plump, 
ro-y-taced  old  lady  of  remarkably  limited  ideas,  who  had  liter- 
ally passed  IHT  whole  life  in  the  city  of  London.  Having  been 
reeently  k-ft  a  widow,  she  had  broken  up  housekeeping,  and 
wa<  now  on  her  way  to  join  a  son  established  in  New  York, 
who  had  very  kindly  sent  for  her  to  come  over  and  live  with 
him.  Tin*  iv>t  of  the  world  was  almost  a  sealed  book  to  her, 
but  she  talked  a  great  deal  of  the  Minories,  the  Poultry,  the  Old 
.It.- wry,  ( 'heaj>-ide,  Long  Acre,  Bishopsgate  Within  and  Bishops- 
\Vithout,  and  other  streets  and  places  with  appellations 
equally  i-xprosive. 

The  majority  of  the  male  pa^engers  were  pleasant  and  com- 
panionable— and  we  thought  we  had  seen  them  all  in  the  course 
of  the  Jirst  three  days — but  on  the  fourth,  we  heard  the  captain 
say  to  one  of  the  waiters,  ".Juba,  ask  thtit  </ni(l»n<in  if  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure,  of  taking  wine  with  him."     My  eyes  now  in- 
voluntarily ii>llowed  the  direction  of  Juba's  movements,  feeling- 
some  curio>ity  to  know  who  "that  gentleman"  was,  as  1  now 
1  having  frequently  heard  the  epithet  within  the  last 
For  instance,  when  almost  every  one  was  confined 
Lckness   to   their  state-rooms,  I  had  seen  the   captain 
:\<-}i  a  servant  to  inquire  of  that  gentleman  if  he  would  have 
any  tiling  sent  to  him  from  the  table.     Also,  I  had  heard  Ham- 
ilton, the  >teward,  call  out — "There,  boys,  don't  you  hear  that 
gentleman  ring  his  bell — why  don't  you   run  spontaneously — 

jump,  f  \  on.  to  number  elevenleen."      I  was  pu/.xlcd  for  ;i 

moment   to   divine  whieh   state-ronm   bore  the  designation  of 

ele\enteen,  but  concluded  it  to  be  one  of  the  many  unmeaning 

terms  that  characterize  tin-  phraseology  of  our  colored  people. 

.  1  wondered  who  that  gentleman  could  be;  but 

:hii!g  eUe  happened  immediately  to  divert  my  attention.  • 

Now,  when  1  heard  (  'aptain  Saiitlo\\  propose  taking  wine  with 

him,  I  COlttlndcd,  that,  OI  COtine,  thai  gentleman  must  be  visible 

in  propria   persona,  and  ea>iing  my  e\ cs  toward  the   lower  end 

of  the  table,  1  p.-ivrivrd  a  genteel-looking  man  whom  I  had  not 

seen  before.      He  was  apparenlly  of  no  particular  age,  and  there 

\\as  nothing  in  his  fa-'i-   that   could  lead  any  one  to  guess  at  his 

country.      lb-  might  have  been  Kngli-h,  Sc.oteh,  Irish  or  Amer- 

ii-an  :    but    In-  had  none  of  the  characteristic  marks  of  either 

He  filled   his  gla-s  and   bowing  his  head  to  Captain 

Santlow,  who  congratulated  him  on  hi-  recovery,  he  swallowed 


242  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

his  wine  in  silence.  There  was  an  animated  conversation  going: 
on  near  the  head  of  the  table,  between  Miss  Audley  and  two 
of  her  beaux,  and  we  thought  no  more  of  him. 

At  the  close  of  the  dessert,  we  happened  to  know  that  he  had 
quitted  the  table  and  gone  on  deck,  by  one  of  the  waiters  com- 
ing down,  and  requesting  Mr.  Overslaugh  to  let  him  pass  for  a 
moment,  while  he  went  into  No.  eleventeen  for  that  gentleman's 
overcoat.  I  now  found  that  the  servants  had  converted  No.  13 
into  eleventeen.  By-the-bye,  that  gentleman  had  a  state-room 
all  to  himself,  sometimes  occupying  the  upper  and  sometimes 
the  under  birth. 

"  Captain  Santlow,"  said  Mr.  Fenton,  "  allow  me  to  ask  you 
the  name  of  that  gentleman." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  captain,  trying  to  suppress 
a  smile,  "  at  least  I  have  forgotten  it — some  English  name ;  for 
he  is  an  Englishman — he  came  on  board  at  Plymouth,  and  his 
indisposition  commenced  immediately.  Mrs.  Cummings,  shall 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  peeling  an  orange  for  you  ?" 

I  now  recollected  a  little  incident  which  had  set  me  laughing- 
soon  after  we  left  Plymouth,  and  when  we  were  beating  down 
the  coast  of  Devonshire.  I  had  been  trying  to  write  at  the 
table  in  the  ladies'  cabin,  but  it  was  one  of  those  days  when 

"  Our  paper,  pen  and  ink,  and  we 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea." 

And  all  I  could  do  was  to  take  refuge  in  my  berth,  and  endea- 
vor to  read,  leaving  the  door  open  for  light  and  air.  My  atten- 
tion, however,  was  continually  withdrawn  from  my  book  by  the 
sound  of  something  that  was  dislodged  from  its  place,  sliding  or 
foiling,  and  frequently  suffering  destruction;  though  sometimes 
miraculously  escaping  unhurt. 

AVhile  I  was  watching  the  progress  of  two  pitchers  that  had 
been  tossed  out  of  the  washing-stand,  and  after  deluging  the 
floor  with  water,  had  met  in  the  ladies  cabin,  and  were  rolling 
amicably  side  by  side,  without  happening  to  break  each  other, 
I  saw  a  barrel  of  flour  start  from  the  steward's  pantry,  and  run- 
ning across  the  dining-room,  stop  at  a  gentleman  that  lay  ex- 
tended in  a  lower  berth  with  his  room  door  open,  and  pour  out 
its  contents  upon  him,  completely  enveloping  him  in  a  fog  of 
meal.  I  heard  the  steward,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  mop- 
ping up  the  water  that  had  flowed  from  the  pitchers,  call  out, 
"  Run,  boys,  run,  that  gentleman's  smothering  up  in  flour — go 
take  the  barrel  off  him— jump,  T  tell  you." 


T1LK  LADIES' READER  243 

How  that  gentleman  acted  while  hidden  in  the  cloud  of  flour, 
I  could  not  peivcive,  and  immediately  the  closing  of  the  folding 
doors  shut  out  the  scene. 

For  a  few  days  after  lie  appeared  among  us,  there  was  some 
.hitioii  with  regard  to  this  nameless  stranger,  whose  tacitur- 
nity seemed  his  chief  characteristic.  One  morning  while  we 
were  looking  at  the  Mjambols  of  a  shoal  of  porpoises  that  were 
tumbling  through  the  wa\o  and  sometimes  leaping  out  of  them, 
my  hu.-hund  made  some  remark  on  the  clumsy  antics  of  this 
un>ightly  fish,  addre>-in^  himself,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  un- 
known Englishman,  who  happened  to  be  standing  near  him. 
That  gi-ntleman  smiled  allably,  l»ut  made  no  reply.  Mr.  Fenton 
pur.Micd  the  subject — and  that  gentleman  smiled  still  more  affa- 
bly, and  walked  away. 

.  he  was  neither  deaf  nor  dumb,  nor  melancholy, 

but  had  only  "a  great  talent  for  silence,"  and  as  is  usually  the 

hose  g< -iims  lies  that  way,  he  was  soon  left 

entirely  to  himself,  no  one  thinking  it  worth  while  to  take  the 

trouble  of  extracting  words  from  him.     In  truth,  he  was  so  im- 

•••able,  and  at  the  same  time  so  evidently  insignificant,  and 

rally  uninteresting,  that  his  fellow-passengers  tacitly  con- 

!  him  to  Coventry;  and  in  Coventry  he  seemed  perfectly 

>atisficd  t«>  dwell.     Once  or  twice  Captain  Santlow  was  asked 

a^ain   if  he  recollected  the  name  of  that  gentleman;  but  he 

always  replied  with  a  sort  of  smile,  "I  cannot  say  I  do — not 

ly,  at  least — but  I'll  look  at  my  manifest  and  see" — and  he 

never  tailed  to  turn  the  conversation  to  something  else. 

Tin-  only  j.ei-<>M  that  persisted  in  occasionally  talking  to  that 

vvntleman,  was  old  Mrs.  dimming:  and  she  confided  to  him 

her  perpetual  alarms  at  "the  perils  of  tin-  sea,"  considering  him 

•d  hearer,  as  he  never  mad*1  any  reply,  and  was  always  dis-» 

:<'d,  and  sitting  and  standing  about,  apparently  at  leisure, 

while  the  nthcr  gi-ntli-nn-n  were  occupied  in  reading,  writing, 

playing  chess,  walking  the  deck,  <fcc. 

Whenever  the  ship  was  struck  by  a  heavy  sea,  and  after 
quivering  with  the  shock,  remained  motionless  for  a  moment 
-he  recovered  herx-If  and  rolled  the  other  way,  poor  Mrs. 
Ciimmings  supp<i<rd  that  we  had  run  against  a  rock,  and  could 
not  be  convinced  that  rocks  w< -re  not  dispersed  everywhere 
about  the  open  onean.  And  as  thai  gentleman  never  at- 
tempted to  undeceive  her  on  thi>  <>r  any  other  subject,  but 
merely  listened  with  a  placid  smile,  she  believed  that  he  always 
thought  preci,c|y  aa  .-he  did.  She  not  (infrequently  discussed 


244  THE  LADIES'  EEADER. 

to  him,  in  an  under  tone,  the  obstinacy  and  incivility  of.  the 
captain,  who,  she  averred,  with  truth,  had  never  in  any  one  in- 
stance, had  the  politeness  to  stop  the  ship,  often  as  she  had  re- 
quested, nay,  implored  him  to  do  so  even  when  she  was  suffer- 
ing with  sea-sickness,  and  actually  tossed  out  of  her  berth  by 
the  violence  of  the  storm,  though  she  was  holding  on  with  both 
hands  .... 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  after  we  left  the  English  Channel  we 
were  off  the  banks  of  Newfoundland ;  and,  as  is  frequently  the 
case  in  their  vicinity,  we  met  with  cold  foggy  weather.  It 
cleared  a  little  about  seven  in  the  morning,  and  we  then  discov- 
ered no  less  than  three  icebergs  to  leeward.  One  of  them, 
whose  distance  from  us  was  perhaps  a  mile,  appeared  higher 
than  the  main-mast  head,  and  as  the  top  shot  up  into  a  tall 
column,  it  looked  like  a  vast  rock  with  a  liovht-house  on  its  pin- 
nacle. As  the  cold  and  watery  sunbeams  gleamed  fitfully  upon 
it,  it  exhibited  in  some  places  tlie  rainbow  tints  of  a  prism — 
other  parts  were  of  a  dazzling  white,  while  its  sharp  angular 
projections  seemed  like  masses  of  diamonds  glittering  upon 
snow. 

The  fog  soon  became  so  dense  that  in  looking  over  the  ship 
we  could  not  discern  the  sea.  Fortunately,  it  was  so  calm  that 
we  scarcely  moved,  or  the  danger  of  driving  on  the  icebergs 
would  have  been  terrific.  We  had  now  no  other  means  of  as- 
certaining our  distance  from  them,  but  by  trying  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  water  with  a  thermometer. 

In  the  afternoon  the  fog  gathered  still  more  thickly  round  us, 
and  dripped  from  the  rigging,  so  that  the  sailors  were  continu- 
ally swabbing  the  deck.  I  had  gone  with  Mr.  Fenton  to  the 
round-house,  and  looked  awhile  from  its  windows  on  the  com- 
'fortless  scene  without.  The  only  persons  then  on  the  main- 
deck  were  the  captain  and  the  first  mate.  They  were  wrapped 
in  their  watch-coats,  their  hair  and  whiskers  dripping  with  the 
fog  dew.  Most  of  the  passengers  went  to  bed  at  an  early  hour, 
and  soon  all  was  awfully  still;  Mrs.  Gumming  being  really  too 
much  frightened  to  talk,  only  that  she  sometimes  wished  her- 
self in  Shoreditch,  and  sometimes  in  Houndsditch.  It  was  a 
night  of  real  danger.  The  captain  remained  on  deck  till  morn- 
ing, and  several  of  the  gentlemen  bore  him  company  being  too 
anxious  to  stay  below. 

About  day-break,  a  heavy  shower  of  rain  dispersed  the  fog — 
"  The  conscious  vessel  waked  as  from  a  trance."  A  breeze  sprung 
up  that  carried  us  out  of  danger  from  the  icebergs  which  were 


TIIK    LADIES'    I5KAPKR.  245 

soon  diminished  to  three  specks  on  the  horizon,  and  the  sun  rose 
bright  and  cheerfully. 

Toward  noon,  the  ladies  recollected  that  none  of  them  had 
seen  that  gentleman  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  and 
some  apprehension  was  expressed  lest  he  should  have  walked 
overboard  in  the  tog.  No  one  could  give  any  account  of  him, 
or  remember  his  la>t  appearance;  and  Miss  Audley  professed 
much  regret  that  now  in  all  probability  we  should  never  be  able 
to  ascertain  his  name,  as,  most  likely  he  had  "died  and  made 
no  sign."  To  our  shames  be  it  spoken,  not  one  of  us  could  cry 
a  tear  at  his  possible  fate.  The  captain  had  turned  into  his 
berth,  and  was  reposing  himself  after  the  fatigue  of  last  night; 
so  we  could  make  no  inquiry  of  him  on  the  subject  of  our  miss- 
ing fellow-passenger. 

Mrs.  Cummings  called  the  steward,  and  asked  him  how  long 

it  was  since  he  had  seen  anything  of  that  gentleman.    "  I  really 

can't  tell,  madam,"  n-plird  Hamilton — "I  can't  pretend  to  charge 

my  memory  uith  sueh  things.     But  I  conclude  he  must  have 

-een  yesterday — at  least  I  rather  expect  he  was." 

The  waiter  Juba  was  now  appealed  to.  "  I  believe,  madam," 
said  Juba,  "I  remember  something  of  handing  that  gentleman 
th.-  l.read-l.asket  yesterday  at  dinner — but  I  would  not  be  quali- 
fied as  to  whether  the  thing  took  place  or  not,  my  mind  being 
a  good  deal  engaged  at  the  time." 

"Solomon,  the  third  wait er, disclaimed  all  positive  knowledge 
of  this  or  any  other  fact,  but  sagely  remarked,  "that  it  was  very 
likely  that  gentleman  had  been  about  all  yesterday  as  usual: 
yet  still  it  was  just  as  likely  he  might  not;  and  there  was  only 
one  thing  certain,  which  was,  that  if  he  was  not  nowhere,  he 
must,  of  course,  be  somewhere." 

"I  have  a  misgiving,"  said  Mrs.  Cummings,  "that  he  will 
never  be  found  again." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  can  do,  madam,"  exclaimed  the  steward, 
looking  as  if  suddenly  struck  with  a  bright  thought — "I  can 
examine  into  No.  clcventeen,  and  see  if  I  can  perceive  him 
there."  And  softly  opening  the  door  of  the  state-room  in  ques- 
tion, he  stepped  bark  and  >aid  with  a  triumphant  flourish  of  his 
hand — "There  he  is,  ladies,  there  he  is,  in  the  upper  berth  fast 
asleep  in  his  double  cashmere  dressing  gown.  I  opinionato 
that  he  was  one  of  the  gentlemen  that  stayed  on  deck  all  night, 
beeaiise  they  were  afraid  to  go  to  sleep  on  account  of  the  ice- 
bcrgers — of  course  nobody  noticed  him — but  there  he  is  now, 
safe  enough." 


24-G  THE   LADIES'  READER, 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Cummings,  "  he  is  not  dead,  however,  so 
we  have  yet  a  chance  of  knowing  his  name  from  himself,  if  we 
choose  to  ask  him.  But  I'm  determined  I'll  make  the  captain 
tell  it  me,  as  soon  as  he  gets  up.  It's  all  nonsense,  this  making 
a  secret  of  a  man's  name." 

Among  the  numerous  steerage  passengers  was  a  young  man, 
whose  profession  was  that  of  a  methodist  preacher.  Having 
succeeded  in  making  some  religious  impressions  on  the  majority 
of  his  companions,  he  one  Sunday  obtained  their  consent  to  his 
performing  divine  service  that  evening  in  the  steerage ;  and  re- 
spectfully intimated  that  he  would  be  highly  gratified  by  the 
attendance  of  any  of  the  cabin  passengers  that  would  conde- 
scend to  honor  him  so  far.  Accordingly,  after  tea,  we  all  de- 
scended to  the ,  steerage  at  early  candle-light,  and  found  every- 
thing prepared  for  the  occasion.  A  barrel,  its  head  covered 
with  a  piece  of  sailcloth,  served  as  a  desk,  lighted  by  two  yel- 
lowish dip-candles  placed  in  empty  porter  bottles.  But  as  there 
was  considerable  motion,  it  was  found  that  the  bottles  would 
not  rest  in  their  stations;  therefore  they  were  held  by  two  boys. 
The  chests  and  boxes  nearest  to  the  desk  were  the  seats  allotted 
to  the  ladies  and  gentlemen :  and  the  steerage  people  ranged 
themselves  behind. 

A  hymn  was  sung  to  a  popular  tune.  The  prayer  and  ser- 
mon were  delivered  in  simple  but  impressive  language ;  for  the 
preacher,  though  a  poor  and  illiterate  man,  was  not  deficient 
either  in  sense  or  feeling,  and  was  evidently  imbued  with  the 
sincerest  piety.  There  was  something  solemn  and  affecting  in 
the  aspect  of  the  whole  scene,  with  all  its  rude  arrangement ; 
and  also  in  the  idea  of  the  lonely  and  insulated  situation  of  our 
little  community  "  one  wide  water  all  around  us."  And  when 
the  preacher,  in  his  homely  but  fervent  language,  returned 
thanks  for  our  hitherto  prosperous  voyage,  and  prayed  for  our 
speedy  and  safe  arrival  at  our  destined  port,  tears  stood  in  the 
eyes  of  many  of  his  auditors.  I  thought,  when  it  was  over, 
how  frequently  such  scenes  must  have  occurred  between  the 
decks  of  the  Mayflower,  during  the  long  and  tempestuous  pas- 
sage of  that  pilgrim  band  who  finally 

"  Moored  their  bark 
On  the  wild  New  England  shore," 


Amid  the  storm  they  sung, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea — 


THK  LADIES'  RKADKU.  247 

when  the  AVISO  and  pious  Brewster  lifted  his  voice  in  exhorta- 
tion and  prayer,  and  the  virtuous  Carver,  and  the  gallant  Stand- 

ish,  bowed  their  heads  in  devotion  before  him 

After  crossing  the  Banks  we  seemed  to  feel  ourselves  on 
American  ground,  or  rather  on  American  sea.  As  our  interest 
increased  on  approaching  the  land  of  our  destination,  that  gen- 
tleman was  proportionally  overlooked  and  forgotten.  He  "kept 
the  even  tenor  of  his  way,"  and  we  had  become  scarcely  con- 
scious that  he  was  still  among  us:  till  one  day  when  there  was 
rather  a  hard  gale,  and  the  waves  were  running  high,  we  were 
startled,  as  we  surrounded  the  luncheon  table,  by  a  tremendous 
noise  on  the  cabin  staircase,  and  tin-  sudden  bursting  open  of 

loot  at  its  foot.  \\V  all  looked  up,  and  saw  that  gentle- 
man falling  down  >tairs.  with  both  arms  extended,  as  he  held 
in  one  hand  a  tall  eane  >too],  ami  in  the  other  the  captain's  bar- 

T.  which  had  Imiig  ju>t  within  the  upper  door;  he  having 
involuntarily  caught  hold  of  both  these  articles,  with  a  view  of 

_r  himself.  "While  his  head,  as  he  tumbled,  went  nicketty 
nock,"  his  countenance,  for  once,  assumed  a  new  expression, 
and  the  change  t'n>m  its  usual  unvarying  sameness  was  so  strik- 

hat  combined  with  his  ludicrous  attitude,  it  set  us  all  to 
laughing.  The  waters  ran  forward  and  assisted  him  to  rise; 
and  it  was  then  found  that  the  stool  and  the  barometer  had 
been  the  greater  suilerers;  one  having  lost  a  leg,  and  the  other 
beinir  so  shattered  that  the  stair-carpet  was  covered  with  glob- 

•  f  .jiiirksilver.  However,  he  retired  to  his  state-room,  and 
whether  or  not  he  was  seen  again  before  next  morning,!  cannot 

ively  undertake  to  say. 

On  the  edge  of  the  Gulf  Stream  we  had  a  day  of  entire  calm, 
when  "there  was  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl."  A  thin 
\eil  of  haziness  somewhat  softened  the  fires  of  the  American 
Min,  (as  it  was  now  called  by  the  European  passengers,)  and  we 
1  the  whole  day  on  deck,  in  a  delightful  state  of  idle  en- 
joyment; gazing  on  the  inhabitants  of  the  deep,  that  like  our- 

a  seemed  to  be  taking  a  holiday.  Dolphins,  horse-mack- 
erel, and  porpoises  were  sporting  round  the  vessel,  and  the 
flying-fish  "with  brine  still  dropping  from  its  wings,"  was  dart- 
ing up  into  the  sun-light;  while  flocks  of  petrels,  their  black 
plumage  tinged  with  tlame-color,  seemed  to  rest  on  the  surface 
of  the  water;  and  the  nautilus,  u  the  native  pilot  of  his  little 
bark,"  glided  gaily  along  the  dimpling  mirror  that  reflected  his 
liny  oars  and  gauzy  sail.  We  fished  up  large  clusters  of  sea- 

!,  among  which  were  some  beautiful  specimens  of  a  delicate 


248  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

purple  color,  which,  when  viewed  through  a  microscope,  glit- 
tered like  silver,  and  were  covered  with  little  shell-fish  so  minute 
as  to  be  invisible  to  the  naked  eye. 

It  was  a  lovely  day.  The  lieutenant  and  his  family  were  all 
on  deck,  and  looked  happy.  That  gentleman  looked  as  usual. 
Toward  evening,  a  breeze  sprung  up  directly  fair,  and  filled  the 
sails,  which  all  day  had  been  clinging  idly  to  the  masts ;  and 
before  midnight  we  were  wafted  along  at  the  rate  of  nine  knots 
an  hour,  "  while  round  the  waves  phosphoric  brightness  broke," 
the  ship  seeming,  as  she  cleaved  the  foam,  to  draw  after  her  in 
her  wake  a  long  train  of  stars. 

Next  day  we  continued  to  proceed  rapidly,  with  a  fair  wind, 
which  we  knew  would  soon  bring  us  to  the  end  of  our  voyage. 
The  ladies'  cabin  was  now  littered  with  trunks  and  boxes, 
brought  from  the  baggage  room,  that  we  might  select  from 
them  such  articles  as  we  thought  we  should  require  when  we 
went  on  shore. 

We  were  going  rapidly  through  the  Narrows,  when  the  bell 
rung  for  breakfast,  which  Captain  Santlow  had  ordered  at  an 
early  hour,  as  we  had  all  been  up  before  daylight.  Chancing 
to  look  toward  his  accustomed  seat,  I  missed  that  gentleman, 
and  inquired  after  him  of  the  captain.  "  Oh !"  he  replied, 
"that  gentleman  went  on  shore  in  the  news-boat ;  did  you  not 
see  him  depart?  He  bowed  all  round  before  he  went  down  the 
side." 

"No,"  was  the  general  reply,  "we  did  not  see  him  go;"  In 
truth  we  had  all  been  too  much  interested  in  hearing,  reading, 
and  talking  of  the  news  brought  by  the  boat. 

"  Then  he  is  gone  forever,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cummings — "  and 
we  shall  never  know  his  name." 

"Come,  Captain  Santlow,"  said  Mr.  Fenton,  "  try  to  recollect  it. 
1  Let  it  not,1  as  Grumio  says,  *  die  in  oblivion,  while  we  return 
to  our  grave  inexperienced  in  it.' " 

"His  name,"  answered  the  Captain,  "is  Sir  St.  John  St. 
Ledger." 

"  Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger !"  was  repeated  by  each  of  the  com- 
pany. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Captain  Santlow,  "  and  you  see  how  difficult 
it  is  to  say  it  smoothly.  There  is  more  sibilation  in  it  than  in 
any  name  I  know.  Was  I  not  right  in  keeping  it  from  you  till 
the  voyage  was  over,  and  thus  sparing  you  the  trouble  of  articu- 
lating it,  and  myself  the  annoyance  of  hearing  it.  See,  here  it 
is  in  writing." 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  049 

The  captain  then  took  his  manifest  out  of  his  pocket-book, 
and  showed  us  the  words,  "Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger,  of  Seven- 
oaks,  Kent." 

"Pho!"  said  Mrs.  Cummings.  "Where's  the  trouble  in 
speaking  that  name,  if  you  only  knew  the  right  way — I  have 
heard  it  a  hundred  times — and  even  seen  it  in  the  newspapers. 
This  must  be  the  very  gentleman  that  my  cousin  George's  wife 
is  always  talking  about.  She  has  a  brother  that  lives  near  his 
,  a  topping  apothecary.  Why,  'tis  easy  enough  to  say  his 
name,  if  you  say  it  as  we  do  in  England." 

"  And  how  is  that  ?"  asked  the  captain  ;  "  what  can  you  make 
of  Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger?" 

u  Why,  Sir  Singeon  Sillinger,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Mrs. 
Cummings — **  I  am  confident  he  would  have  answered  to  that 
name.  Sir  Singeon  Sillinger  of  Sunnock — cousin  George's 
wife's  brother  lives  close  by  Sunnock  in  a  yellow  house  with  i\ 
red  door." 

"  And  have  I,"  said  the  captain,  laughing,  "so  carefully  kept 
his  name  t<>  mysdt',  during  the  whole  passage,  for  fear  we  should 
have  had  to  call  him  Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger,  when  all  the  while 
we  niiu'lit  have  said  Sir  Singeon  Sillinger.:' 

**  To  be  sure  you  might,"  replied  Mrs.  Cummings,  looking 
proud  of  the  opportunity  of  displaying  her  superior  knowledge 
of  something. 

In  a  short  time  a  steamboat  came  alongside,  into  which  we 

removed  ourselves  accompanied  by  the  captain  and  the  letter 

:  and  we  proceeded  up  to  the  city,  where  Mr.  Fenton  and 

myself  were  met  on  the  wharf,  I  need  not  tell  how,  and  by 

whom. 


DROPPING  LEAVES— MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 

The  leaves  are  dropping,  dropping, 
And  I  watch  them  as  they  go ; 

Now  whirling,  floating,  stopping, 
With  a  look  of  noiseless  woe. 

Yes,  I  watch  them  in  their  falling, 
hoy  tremble  from  the  stem, 

With  a  stillness  so  appalling — 
And  my  hearty  goes  down  with  them! 

Yes,  I  see  them  floating  round  mo 
'Mid  the  beating  of  the  rain, 

Like  the  hopes  that  still  have  bound  me, 

To  the  fading  past  again. 
11* 


250  TITH  LADIKS' 


They  are  floating  through  the  stillness, 
They  are  given  to  the  storm  — 

And  they  tremble  off  like  phantoms 
Of  a  joy  that  has  no  form. 

But  the  proud  tree  stands  up  prouder, 

While  its  branches  cast  their  leaves—- 
And the  cold  wind  whispers  louder, 

Like  a  sobbing  breath  that  grieves  ; 
A  heart  that's  long  in  breaking, 

As  a  single  flower  may  cling, 
All  wither'd,  shorn,  and  quaking  — 

On  the  naked  stalk  till  spring. 

Then  I  thought  that  tree  is  human, 

And  its  boughs  are  human  too  ; 
For  while  the  leaves  were  wealthy 

With  kindling  sap  and  dew  — 
While  the  sun  shot  golden  lances 

Through  all  its  billowy  green, 
And-  the  birds  poured  love  and  music, 

Where  the  slanting  rays  had  been  — 

Then  its  great  roots  gather'd  fragrance, 

Like  wine-drops  from  the  ground, 
Till  it  sparkled  through  the  foliage, 

As  faith  fills  the  profound 
Of  souls  that  live  together, 

In  kindred  trust  and  love  — 
Till  their  union  seems  immortal, 

As  the  burning  stars  above. 

But  the  very  dews  of  summer 

Had  left  their  own  decay  ; 
And  change,  a  ruthless  vampire, 

That  steals  the  soul  away, 
Came  with  the  mellow  autumn, 

And  touched  those  leaves  with  blight  ; 
Then  the  frost  came  stealing  earthward, 

Like  a  ghost  upon  the  night. 

When  the  frost  had  done  its  death-work, 

When  the  golden  leaves  were  sere, 
And  the  brown  crept  dimly  on  them 

In  the  old  age  of  the  year; 
Ah  !  the  roots  withdrew  their  nurture, 

While  the  tree  stood  firm  and  high  ; 
When  the  leaves  had  lost  their  greenness, 

Lo,  it  cast  them  off  to  die  ! 

Then  I  thought  those  leaves  were  weary, 
And  thrilled  with  human  pain, 

As  they  fell  so  cold  and  dreary 
Beneath  the  beating  rain. 


TI1K  LADIES1  READER.  051 

While  the  boughs  Avaved  slow  and  grimly, 

And  shook  them  all  away — 
Those  leaves  that  fell  so  dimly, 

Like  shadows  on  the  day ! 

Then  my  soul  went  sadly  after, 

As  they  t[uivered  from  my  sight, 
And  it  folloAved  faster,  faster, 

Aa  my  hopes  had  taken  flight. 
So  I  watched  the  pale  leaves  flutter, 

Flutter  downward  from  the  - 
And  I  said,  the  cold  earth  under 

Is  enough  for  mo  and  them. 


TO  T1IH  l-VKNI.Mi  WIND— WILLIAM  CULLEN  BKTAHT. 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 

That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day ! 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  Avaves  till  .now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  \vhite  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorch'd  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  «>t'  delight: 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night; 
And  languishing  to  hear  thy  welcome  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretch'd  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth — 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  Avoodbird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  Avaters,  bright  Avith  stars,  and  rouse 

The  Avide,  old  Avood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning,  from  the  innumerable  boughs, 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast: 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  Avaters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 

Stoop  o'er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 
The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming  stone : 

That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  Avillows  stray, 
And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 

May  think  of  gentle  souls  that,  pass'd  away, 
Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown, 


252  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of  men, 
And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moisten'd  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful,  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
"Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore 

"With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odours  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


THE  MARINER'S  HYMK-MRs.  SOUTHKT. 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner ! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee ! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands — 

Good  angels  lead  thee ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily, 

Christian,  steer  home"! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail  there ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So — let  the  vessel  wear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"What  of  the  night,  watchman? 

What  of  the  night? 
"  Cloudy — all  quiet — 

No  land  yet — all's  right!" 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  263 

How !  gains  the  leak  so  fast  ? 

Clear  out  the  hold — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold; 
There — let  the  ingots  go — 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 
Hurra  !  the  harbor's  near — 

Lo,  the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island  ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam — 
Christian,  cast  anchor  now — 

I  U:\VKX  is  thy  home! 


MIMKNTAL  MUSIC—  FITZ-QREBNE  HALLECK. 

Sounds  as  of  far  off  bells  came  on  his  ears ; 
mcied'twas  the  music  of  the  spheres; 
He  was  mistaken ;  it  was  no  such  thing; 

Twas  Yankee  Doodle,  played  by  Scudder's  band. 
He  muttered,  as  he  lingered,  listening, 

Something  of  freedom,  and  our  happy  land ; 
Then  sketched,  as  to  his  home  he  hurried  fast, 
This  sentimental  song — his  saddest,  and  his  last: — 

"  Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love, 

And  happiness  their  theme ; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  then-  an-  anp-1  voices  heard, 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours, 
"When  life  is  but  an  Appl  day. 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 

11  There's  music  in  the  forest  leaves 

"When  summer  winds  an-  there, 
And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 

That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 
The  first  wild  bird  that  drinks  the  dew 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  song,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 

"  There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves, 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  their  foam; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck — 
The  mariner's  song  of  home — 


254  Til)-    LADIES'  READER. 

When  moon  and  star-beams,  smiling,  meet, 

At  midnight,  on  the  sea; 
And  there  is  music  once  a  week 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 

"  But  the  music  of  young  thoughts  too  soon 

Is  faint,  and  dies  away, 
And  from  our  morning  dreams  we  wake 

To  curse  the  coming  day. 
And  childhood's  frolic  hours  are  brief, 

And  oft,  in  after  years, 
Their  memory  comes  to  chill  the  heart, 

And  dim  the  eye  with  tears. 

"  To-day  the  forest  leaves  are  green ; 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow, 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed,  ere  long, 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the  winter  snows,  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds ; 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one, 

More  eloquent  than  words. 

"  The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more, 
When  the  livid  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore ; 
And  the  mariner's  song  of  home  has  ceased — 

His  corse  is  on  the  sea ; 
And  music  ceases,  when  it  rains, 

In  Scudders  balcony. 


THE  ELDER'S  FUXERAL -PKOFESSOR  WILSON. 

How  beautiful  to  the  cy»%  and  to  the  heart  rise  up,  in  a  pas- 
toral region,  the  green,  silent  hills  from  the  dissolving  snow- 
wreaths  that  yet  linger  at  their  feet !  A  few  warm,  sunny 
days,  and  a  few  breezy  and  melting  nights,  have  seemed  to  create 
the  sweet  season  of  spring  out  of  the  winter's  bleakest  desola- 
tion. We  can  scarcely  believe  that  such  brightness  of  verdure 
could  have  been  shrouded  in  the  snow,  blending  itself,  as  it 
now  does,  so  vividly  with  the  deep  blue  of  heaven.  With  the 
revival  of  nature,  our  own  souls  feel  restored.  Happiness  be- 
comes milder,  meeker,  and  richer  in  pensive  thought ;  while 
sorrow  catches  a  faint  tinge  of  joy,  and  reposes  itself  on  the 
quietness  of  earth's  opening  breast.  Then  is  youth  rejoicing. 


TilK   LA  I 'IKS'   KKADER.  255 

manhood  sedate,  and  old  age  resigned.  The  child  shakes  his 
golden  curls  in  his  glee ;  he  of  riper  life  hails  the  coming  yeai 
with  temperate  exultation,  and  the  eye1,  tliat  has  been  touched 
witli  dimness,  in  the  general  spirit  of  delight,  forgets  or  fears 
not  the  shadows  of  tin-  urave. 

On  such  a  vernal  day  as  this  did  we,  who  had  visited  the 
Elder  on  his  death-bed,  walk  together  to  his  house  in  the 
Ha/el-gle.n,  to  accompany  his  body  to  the  place  of  burial.  On 
the  night  he  died,  it  seemed  to  !.••  the  dead  of  winter.  On  the 
day  he  was  buried,  it  seemed  to  be  the  birth  of  spring.  The 
old  pastor  and  1  were  alone  for  awhile,  as  we  pursued  our  path 
up  the  glen,  by  the  banks  of  the  little  burn.  It  had  cleared 
itself  «'tl'  from  thi-  melied  sno\\,  and  ran  so  pellucid  a  race, 
that  every  >tone  and  pebble  was  visible,  in  its  yellow  channel. 
The  willows,  the  alders,  and  the  birdies,  the  fairest  and  the 
earliest  of  our  native  hill  trees,  seemed  almost  tinged  with  a 
verdant  li^ht,  as  it'  they  were  budding;  and  beneath  them, 
here  and  there,  peeped  out,  as  in  tin1  pleasure  of  new  existence, 
the  primrose,  lonely,  or  in  little  families  and  Hocks.  The  bee 
had  not  yet  ventured  to  leave  his  cell,  yet  the  flowers  reminded 
one  of  his  murmur.  A  few  insects  were  dancing  in  the  air, 
and  here  and  there  some  little  moorland  bird,  touched  at  the 
heart  with  the  warm,  sunny  change,  was  piping  his  love-sweet 
among  th<-  hrar>. 

It  was  JIM  Mich  a  day  as  a  ^rave,  meditative  man,  like  him 
we  were  about  to  inter,  would  have  chosen  to  walk  over  his 
farm  in  religious  contentment  with  his  lot.  That  was  the 
thought  that  entered  the  pastor's  heart,  as  we  paused  to  enjoy 
one  brighter  gleam  of  the  sun  in  a  little  meadow-field  of  pecu- 
liar beauty.  "This  is  the  last  day  of  the  week,  and  on  that 
day  oftm  did  tin-  Klder  walk  through  this  little  happy  kingdom 
of  his  own,  with  some  of  his  grandehildren  beside  and  around 
him,  and  often  his  Kible  in  his  hand.  It  is,  you  feel,  a  solitary 
place;  all -the  Vftle  is  one  >edu>ion  ;  ami  often  have  its  quiet 
bounds  been  a  place  of  undisturbed  meditation  and  prayer." 

\Ve  now  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage,  and  beyond  it  the  ter- 
mination of  til--  "Jen.  There  the  hiirh  hills  came  sloping  gently 
down;  and  a  little  waterfall,  in  the  distance,  gave  animation 
to  a  scene  of  perfect,  ivpose.  \Ve  wore  now  joined  by  various 
small  parties  coming  to  the  funeral  through  openings  among 
the  hills;  all  sedate,  but  none  >ad,  and  every  greeting  was  that 
of  kindness  and  peace.  The  Klde:-  had  died  full  of  years;  and 
there  was  no  need  why  aiiv  out  of  his  own  household  should 


256  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

weep.  »A  long  life  of  piety  had  been  beautifully  closed  ;  and, 
therefore,  we  were  all  going  to  commit  the  body  to  the  earth, 
fissured,  as  far  as  human  beings  may  be  so  assured,  that  the 
soul  was  in  heaven.  As  the  party  increased  on  our  approach 
to  the  house,  there  was  even  cheerfulness  among  us.  We 
spoke  of  the  early  and  bright  promise  of  spring ;  of  the  sor- 
rows and  the  joys  of  other  families  ;  of  marriages  and  births  ; 
of  the  new  schoolmaster ;  of  to-morrow's  Sabbath.  There  was 
no  topic,  of  which,  on  any  common  occasion,  it  might  have 
been  fitting  to  speak,  that  did  not  now  perhaps  occupy,  for  a 
few  moments,  some  one  or  other  of  the  group,  till  we  found 
ourselves  ascending  the  green  sward  before  the  cottage,  and 
stood  before  the  bare  branches  of  the  sycamores.  Then  we 
were  all  silent,  and,  after  a  short  pause,  reverently  entered  into 
the  house  of  death. 

At  the  door,  the  son  received  us  with  a  calm,  humble,  and 
untroubled  face  ;  and,  in  his  manner  toward  the  old  minister, 
there  was  something  that  could  not  be  misunderstood,  expres- 
sing penitence,  gratitude,  and  resignation.  We  all  sat  down 
in  the  large  kitchen  ;  and  the  son  decently  received  each  per- 
son at  the  door,  and  showed  him  to  his  place.  There  were 
some  old,  gray  heads,  more  becoming  gray,  and  many  bright 
in  manhood  and  youth.  But  the  same  solemn  hush  was  over 
them  all ;  and  they  sat  all  bound  together  in  one  uniting  and 
assimilating  spirit  of  devotion  and  faith.  Wine  and  bread  were 
to  be  sent  round  ;  but  the  son  looked  to  the  old  minister,  who 
rose,  lifted  up  his  withered  hand,  and  began  a  blessing  and  a 
prayer. 

There  was  so  much  composure  and  stillness  in  the  old  man's 
attitude,  and  something  so  affecting  in  his  voice,  tremulous  and 
broken,  not  in  grief,  but  age,  that  no  sooner  had  he  begun  to 
pray,  than  every  heart  and  every  breath  at  once  was  hushed. 
All  stood  motionless,  nor  could  one  eye  abstain  from  that 
placid  and  patriarchal  countenance,  with  its  closed  eyes,  and 
long,  silvery  hair.  There  was  nothing  sad  in  his  words,  but 
they  were  all  humble  and  solemn,  and  at  times  even  joyful  in 
the  kindling  spirit  of  piety  and  faith.  He  spoke  of  the  dead 
man's  goodness  as  imperfect  in  the  eyes  of  his  Great  Judge, 
but  such  as,  we  were  taught,  might  lead,  through  intercession, 
to  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Might  the  blessing  of  God,  he 
prayed,  which  had  so  long  rested  on  the  head  now  coffined,  not 
forsake  that  of  him  who  was  now  to  be  the  father  of  this 
house.  There  was  more  joy,  we  were  told,  in  heaven,  over 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  257 

one  sinner  that  repentcth,  than  over  ninety  and  ninejust  per- 
sons which  need  no  repentance.  Fervently,  too,  and  tenderly, 
did  the  old  man  prav  tor  her,  in  her  silent  chamber,  who  had 
lost  so  kind  a  parent,  and  for  all  the  little  children  round  her 
knees.  Xor  did  he  end  his  prayer  without  some  allusion  to 
his  own  j^ray  hairs,  and  to  the  approaching  day  on  which  many 
then  present  would  attend  his  burial. 

Just  as  he  ceased  to  speak,  one  solitary,  stifled  sob  was 
heard,  and  all  eyes  turned  kindly  round  to  a  little  boy  who 
:  .-Hiding  by  the  side  of  the  Elder's  son.  Restored  once 
more  to  his  own  father's  love,  his  heart  had  been  insensibly 
lilled  with  peace  since  the  old  man's  death.  The  returning 
leiidt -rne<s  of  the  living  came  in  place  of  that  of  the  dead,  and 
the  rhiM  yearned  toward  his  father  now  with  a  stronger  affec- 
tion, relieved,  at  last  from  all  his  fear.  He  had  been  suffered 
to  sit  an  hour  each  day  beside  the  bed  on  which  his  grandfath- 
er lay  shrouded,  and  he  had  got  reconciled  to  the  cold,  but 
silent  and  happy  looks  of  death.  His  mother  and  his  Bible 
told  him  to  obey  God,  without  repining,  in  all  things ;  and  the 
child  did  so  with  perfect  simplicity.  One  sob  had  found  its 
way  at  the  close  of  that  pathetic  prayer ;  but  the  tears  that 
bathed  his  glistening  cheeks  were  far  different  from,  those  that, 
on  the  day  and  night  of  his  grandfather's  decease,  had  burst 
from  the  agony  of  a  breaking  heart.  The  old  minister  laid  his 
hand  silently  upon  his  golden  head ;  there  was  a  momentary 
murmur  of  kindness  and  pity  over  the  room ;  the  child  was 
paeified  ;  and  again  all  was  repose  and  peace. 

A  sober  voice  said  that  all  was  ready,  and  the  son  and  the 
minister  led  the  way  reverently  out  into  the  open  air.  The 
l»irr  stood  before  the  door,  and  was  lifted  slowly  up  with  its 
>al»lc  pall.  Silently  each  mourner  took  his  place.  The  sun  was 
shining  pleasantly,  and  a  gentle  breeze  passing  through  the  syca- 
mores, shook  down  the  glittering  rain-drops  upon  the  funeral 
velvet.  The  small  procession,  with  an  instinctive  spirit,  began 
to  move  along;  and  as  1  cast  up  my  eyoa  to  take  a  farewell  look 
of  that  beautiful  dwelling,  now  finally  left  by  him  who  so  long 
had  Messed  it,  I  saw,  at  the  half  open.-lattice  of  the  little  bed- 
room window  above,  the  pale,  weeping  \\\CQ  of  that  stainless 
matron,  who  was  taking  her  last  passionate  farewell  of  the  mor- 
tal remains  of  her  father,  now  slowly  receding  from  her  to  the 
<miet  Held  of  graves, 

\Ve  proei-cdi-d  alnnic  tho  edges  of  the  hills,  and  along  the 
meadow-fields,  crossed  tho  old  wooden  bridge  over  the  burn, 
II 


258  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

now  widening  in  its  course  to  the  plain  ;  and  in  an  hour  of  pen- 
sive silence,  or  pleasant  talk,  we  found  ourselves  entering,  in  a 
closer  body,  the  little  gateway  of  the  churchyard.  To  the  toll- 
ing of  the  bell  we  moved  across  the  green  mounds,  and  arranged 
ourselves,  according  to  the  plan  and  order  which  our  feelings 
suggested,  around  the  bier  and  its  natural  supporters.  There 
was  no  delay.  In  a  few  minutes  the  Elder  was  laid  among  the 
mould  of  his  forefathers,  in  their  long-ago  chosen  spot  of  rest. 
One  by  one  the  people  dropped  away,  and  none  were  left  by 
the  new-made  grave  but  the  son  and  his  little  boy,  the  pastor 
and  myself.  As  yet  nothing  was  said,  and  in  that  pause  I 
looked  around  me,  over  the  sweet  burial  ground. 

Each  tombstone  and  grave,  over  which  I  had  often  walked  in 
boyhood,  arose  in  my  memory  as  I  looked  steadfastly  upon  their 
long-forgotten  inscriptions ;  and  many  had  since  then  been 
erected.  The  whole  character  of  the  place  was  still  simple  and 
unostentatious;  but,  from  the  abodes  of  the  dead,  I  could  see 
that  there  had  been  an  improvement  in  the  condition  of  the  liv- 
ing. There  was  a  taste  visible  in  their  decorations,  not  without 
much  of  native  feeling,  and,  occasionally,  something  even  of  na- 
tive grace.  If  there  was  any  other  inscription  than  the  name 
and  age  of  the  poor  inhabitants  below,  it  was,  in  general,  some 
short  text  of  Scripture ;  for  it  is  most  pleasant  and  soothing  to 
the  pious  mind,  when  bereaved  of  friends,  to  commemorate  them 
on  earth  by  some  touching  expression  taken  from  that  Book, 
which  reveals  to  them  a  life  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  sort  of  gradation,  a  scale  of  forgetfulness,  in  a 
country  churchyard,  where  the  processes  of  nature  are  suffered 
to  go  on  over  the  green  place  of  burial ;  that  is  extremely  af- 
fecting in  the  contemplation.  The  soul  goes,  from  the  grave 
just  covered  up  to  that  which  seems  scarcely  joined  together, 
on  and  on  to  those  folded  and  bound  by  the  undisturbed  ver- 
dure of  many,  many  unremembered  years.  It  then  glides  at  last 
into  nooks  and  corners  where  the  ground  seems  perfectly  calm 
and  waveless,  utter  oblivion  having  smoothed  the  earth  over  the 
long  mouldered  bones.  Tombstones,  on  which  the  inscriptions 
are  hidden  in  green  obliteration,  or  that  are  mouldering,  or  fall- 
ing to  a  side,  are  close  to  others  which  last  week  were  brushed 
by  the  chisel :  constant  renovation  and  constant  decay,  vain  at- 
tempts to  adhere  to  memory,  and  oblivion  now  baffled,  and  now 
triumphant,  smiling  among  all  the  memorials  of  human  affec 
tion,  as  they  keep  continually  crumbling  away  into  the  world  of 
undistingnishable  dust  and  ashes. 


TI1K    LAWKS1    UKAPKR.  259 

The  churchyard,  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  rural  parish,  is  the 
place  to  which,  as  they  gr»>w  older,  all  their  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings turn.  The  young  take  a  look  of  it  every  Sabbath-day,  not 
always  perhaps  a  can-less  look,  but  carry  away  from  it,  uncon- 
sciously, many  salutary  impressions.  What  is  more  pleasant 
than  the  meeting  of  a  rural  congregation  in  the  churchyard  be- 
fore the  minister  appears  i  What  is  there  to  shudder  at  in  lying 
down,  sooner  or  later,  in  such  a  peaceful  and  sacred  place,  to  be 
spoken  of  frequently  on  Sabbath  among  the  groups  of  which 
we  used  to  be  one,  and  our  low  burial-spot  to  be  visited,  at 
such  times,  ns  long  as  then'  remains  on  earth  any  one  to  whom 
our  face  was  dear !  To  those  who  mix  in  the  strife  and  dan- 

•  •f  the  wi>rld,  tlie  place  is  felt  to  be  uncertain  wherein  they 
may  finally  lie  at  rest.  The  soldier,  the  sailor,  the  traveler,  can 
only  see  some  dim  grave  dug  for  him,  when  he  dies,  in  soino 
place  obscure,  nameless,  and  unfixed  to  imagination.  All  he 

16,  that  his  burial  will  be,  on  earth  or  in  the  sea.  But  the 
peaceful  dwellers,  who  cultivate  their  paternal  acres,  or  tilling 
at  least  the  same  small  spot  of  soil,  shift  only  from  a  cottage 
on  the  hillside  to  one  on  the  plain,  still  within  the  bounds  of 
one  quiet  parish ;  they  look  to  lay  their  bones,  at  last,  in  the 
burial  place  of  the  kirk  in  which  they  were  baptized,  and  with 
them  it  almost  literally  is  but  a  step  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  calmly  followed  each  other  in 
my  revery,  as  I  stood  beside  the  Elder's  grave,  and  the  trodden 
jrraaa  was  again  lifting  up  its  blades  from  the  pressure  of  many 
feet,  now  all  but  a  few  departed.  \Vhat  a  simple  burial  had  it 
been !  Dust  was  consigned  to  dust ;  no  more.  Bare,  naked, 
simple,  and  austere  is,  in  Scotland,  the  service  of  the  grave.  It 
is  left  to  the  soul  itself  to  consecrate,  by  its  passion,  the  mould 
over  which  tears,  but  no  words  are  poured.  Surely  there  is  a 
beauty  in  this;  for  the  heart  is  left  unto  its  own  sorrow, accord- 
ing as  it  is  a  friend,  a  brother,  a  parent,  or  a  child,  that  is  cov- 
ered up  from  our  eyes.  Yet  call  not  other  rites,  however  differ- 
ent from  this,  less  beautiful  or  pathetic.  For  willingly  does 
the  soul  connect  its  grief  with  any  consecrated  ritual  of  the 
dead.  Sound  or  silence,  music,  hymns,  psalms,  sable  garments, 
or  raiment  white  as  snow,  all  become  holy  symbols  of  the  soul's 
affection  ;  nor  is  it  for  any  man  to  say  which  is  the  most  natural, 
which  is  the  best  of  the  thousand  shows,  and  expressions,  and 
testimonies  of  sorrow,  resignation  and  love,  by  which  mortal 
beings  would  seek  to  express  their  souls,  when  one  of  their 
brethren  lias  returned  to  his  parent  (lust. 


260  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

My  mind  was  recalled  from  all  these  sad,  yet  not  unpleasant 
fancies  by  a  deep  groan,  and  I  beheld  the  Elder's  son  fling  him- 
self down  upon  the  grave,  and  kiss  it  passionately,  imploring 
pardon  from  God.  "  I  distressed  my  father's  heart  in  his  old 
age ;  I  repented,  and  received  thy  forgiveness  even  on  thy 
death-bed !  But  how  may  I  be  assured  that  God  will  forgive 
me  for  having  so  sinned  against  my  old,  gray-headed  father, 
when  his  limbs  were  weak  and  his  eyesight  dim  !"  The  old 
minister  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  without  speaking  a 
word,  with  his  solemn  and  pitiful  eyes  fixed  upon  the  prostrate 
and  contrite  man.  His  sin  had  been  great,  and  tears  that  till 
now  had,  on  this  day  at  least,  been  compressed  within  his  heart 
by  the  presence  of  so  many  of  his  friends,  now  poured  down 
upon  the  sod  as  if  they  would  have  found  their  way  to  the  very 
body  of  his  father.  Neither  of  us  offered  to  lift  him  up,  for  we 
felt  awed  by  the  rueful  passion  of  his  love,  his  remorse  and  his 
penitence ;  and  nature,  we  felt,  ought  to  have  her  way.  "  Fear 
not,  my  son,"  at  length  said  the  old  man,  in  a  gentle  voice, 
"  fear  not,  my  son,  but  that  you  are  already  forgiven.  Dost 
thou  not  feel  pardon  within  thy  contrite  spirit  ?"  He  rose  up 
from  his  knees  with  a  faint  smile,  while  the  minister  with  his 
white  head  yet  uncovered,  held  his  hands  over  him  as  in  bene- 
diction; and  that  beautiful  and  loving  child,  who  had  been 
standing  in  a  fit  of  weeping  terror  at  his  father's  agony,  now 
came  up  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek;  holding  in  his  little 
hand  a  few  faded  primroses,  which  he  had  unconsciously  gath- 
ered together  as  they  lay  on  the  turf  of  his  grandfather's  grave. 


PALESTINE.— JOHN  G.  WHITTIEE. 

Blest  land  of  Judea!  thrice  hallo  w'd  of  song, 
"Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like  throng; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy  sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
"Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  linger'd  before : 
"With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills ! — in  my  spirit  I  hear 

Thy  waters,  Gennesaret,  chime  on  my  ear ; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat  down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  His  sandals  was  thrown. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  261 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  greeu, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  0,  dark  Galilee ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley !  where,  swollen  and  strong, 
Thy  river,  0,  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along; 
Where  the  Ounaunite  strove  with  Jehovah  in  vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

There,  down  from  his  mountains  stern  Zebulon  came, 
And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs  of  flame, 
And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  roll'd  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam's  son! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns  which  rang 
To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around  and  the  valleys  between ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hasten'd  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his  feet? 

I  tread  where  the  twelve  in  their  wayfaring  trod ; 
I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  chosen  of  God — 
Where  His  blessings  were  heard  arid  His  lessons  were  taught 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing  was  wrought. 

0,  hero  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came — 
These  hills  He  toil'd  over  in  grief,  are  the  same — 
The  founts  where  He  drank  by  the  way-side  still  flow, 
And  the  samo  airs  are  blowing  which  breath'd  on  his  brow 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her  feet ; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  God  ? 
Were  my  spirit  but  tuned  from  the  outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  Him! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 
In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among  men ; 


262  THE  LADIES'  READER 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  He  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bow'd  Him  to  bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer. 

Yet,  loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here  ; 
And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same  even  now, 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb,  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

0,  the  outward  hath  gone ! — but,  in  glory  and  power, 
The  Spirit  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same ! 


THE  SEA  MONARCH -T.  BUCHANAN  REAP. 

A  monarch  reigned  beneath  thje  sea 

On  the  wreck  of  a  myriad  thrones — 

The  collected  ruins  of  Tyranny 

Shattered  by  the  hand  of  Destiny, 

And  scattered  abroad  with  maniac  glee, 
Like  a  gibbeted  pirate's  bones. 

Alone,  supreme,  he  reigned  apart, 

On  the  throne  of  a  myriad  thrones — 
"Where  sitting  close  to  the  world's  red  heart, 
Which  pulsed  swift  heat  through  his  ocean  mart, 
He  could  hear  each  heavy  throe  and  start, 
As  she  heaved  her  earthquake  groans. 

He  gazed  through  the  shadowy  deep  which  shields 
His  throne  of  a  myriad  thrones — 

And  saw  the  many  variant  keels 

Driving  over  the  watery  fields, 

Some  with  thunderous  and  flashing  wheels 
Linking  the  remotest  zones. 

Oft,  like  an  eagle  that  swoops  in  air, 

He  saw  from  his  throne  of  thrones, 
The  winged  anchors  with  eager  stare 
Leap  midway  down  to  the  ocean's  lair — 
"While  hanging  plummets  gazed  in  despair 
At  the  unreached  sands  and  stones  1 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  263 


LNDIAX  SUMMER.— CHABLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 

Light  as  love's  smiles,  the  silvery  mist  at  morn 
Floats  in  loose  flakes  along  the  limpid  river; 

The  blue-bird's  notes  upon  the  soft  breeze  borne, 
As  high  in  air  he  carols,  faintly  quiver; 

The  weeping  birch,  like  banners,  idly  waving, 

Bends  to  the  stream,  its  spicy  branches  laving ; 
Beaded  with  dew,  the  witch-elm's  tassels  shiver; 

The  timid  rabbit  from  the  furze  is  peeping, 
And  from  the  springy  spray  the  squirrel's  gayly  leaping. 

I  love  thee,  Autumn,  for  thy  scenery  ere 
The  blasts  of  winter  chase  the  varied  dyes 

That  richly  deck  the  slow-declining  year ; 
I  love  the  splendor  of  thy  sunset  skies, 

The  gorgeous  hues  that  tinge  each  failing  leaf, 

Lovely  as  beauty's  cheek,  as  woman's  love  too  brief; 
I  love  the  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  flies, 

As  on  the  wind  he  pours  his  parting  lay, 
And  wings  his  loitering  flight  to  summer  climes  away. 

0,  Nature !  still  I  fondly  turn  to  thee, 

With  feelings  fresh  as  e'er  my  childhood's  were; 

Though  wild  and  passion-toss'd  my  youth  may  be, 
Toward  thee  I  still  the  same  devotion  bear; 

To  thee — to  thee — though  health  and  hope  no  more 

Life's  wasted  verdure  may  to  me  restore — 
I  still  can,  child-like,  come  as  when  in  prayer 

I  bow'd  my  head  upon  a  mother's  knee, 
And  deem'd  the  world,  like  her,  all  truth  and  purity. 


AM'IKM  INDIAN  VILLAGE— MAROARET  FULLER  OSSOLI. 

At  Oregon,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  was  of  even  a  more 
sumptuous  character  than  at  our  former  "stopping-place." 
Here,  swelled  the  river  in  its  boldest  course,  interspersed  by 
halcyon  isles  on  which  Nature  had  lavished  all  her  prodigality 
in  tree,  vine,  and  flower,  banked  by  noble  bluffs,  three  hundred 
feet  hi^li,  their  sharp  riduv*  as  exquisitely  definite  as  the  edge 
of  a  shell;  their  summits  adorned  with  those  same  beautiful 
trees,  and  with  buttresses  of  rich  rock,  crusted  with  old  hem- 
locks, which  wore  a  touching  and  antique  grace  amid  the 


264  TJIK    LAI) IKS'   READER. 

softer  and  more  luxuriant  vegetation.  Lofty  natural  mounds 
rose  amidst  the  rest,  with  the  same  lovely  and  sweeping  outline, 
showing  everywhere  the  plastic  power  of  water, — water,  mother 
of  beauty,  which,  by  its  sweet  and  eager  flow,  had  left  such 
lineaments  as  human  genius  never  dreamt  of. 

Not  far  from  the  river  was  a  high  crag,  called  the  Pine 
Rock,  which  looks  out,  as  our  guide  observed,  like  a  helmet 
above  the  brow  of  the  country.  It  seems  as  if  the  water  left 
here  and  there  a  vestige  of  forms  and  materials  that  preceded 
its  course,  just  to  set  off  its  new  and  richer  designs. 

The  aspect  of  this  country  was  to  me  enchanting,  beyond 
any  I  have  ever  seen,  from  its  fulness  of  expression,  its  bold 
and  impassioned  sweetness.  Here  the  flood  of  emotion  has 
passed  over  and  marked  everywhere  its  course  by  a  smile.  The 
fragments  of  rock  touch  it  with  a  wildness  and  liberality  which 
give  just  the  needed  relief.  I  should  never  be  tired  here, 
though  I  have  elsewhere  seen  country  of  more  secret  and  allur- 
ing charms,  better  calculated  to  stimulate  and  suggest.  Here 
the  eye  and  heart  are  filled. 

How  happy  the  Indians  must  have  been  here !  It  is  not 
long  since  they  w6re  driven  away,  and  the  ground,  above  and 
below,  is  full  of  their  traces. 

"  The  earth  is  fall  of  men." 

You  have  only  to  turn  up  the  sod  to  find  arrowheads  and 
Indian  pottery.  On  an  island,  belonging  to  our  host,  and 
nearly  opposite  his  house,  they  loved  to  stay,  and  no  doubt, 
enjoyed  its  lavish  beauty  as  much  as  the  myriad  wild  pigeons 
that  now  haunt  its  flower-filled  shades.  Here  are  still  the 
marks  of  their  tomahawks,  the  troughs  in  which  they  prepared 
their  corn,  their  caches. 

A  little  way  down  the  river  is  the  site  of  an  ancient  Indian 
village,  with  its  regularly  arranged  mounds.  As  usual,  they 
had  chosen  with  the  finest  taste.  When  we  went  there,  it  was 
one  of  those  soft,  shadowy  afternoons  when  Nature  seems 
ready  to  weep,  not  from  grief,  but  from  an  overfull  heart.  Two 
prattling,  lovely  little  girls,  and  an  African  boy,  with  glittering 
eye  and  ready  grin,  made  our  party  gay;  but  all  were  still  as 
we  entered  the  little  inlet  and  trod  those  flowery  paths.  They 
may  blacken  Indian  life  as  they  will,  talk  of  its  dirt,  its  brutali- 
ty, I  will  ever  believe  that  the  men  who  chose  that  dwelling- 
place  were  able  to  feel  emotions  of  noble  happiness  as  they 
returned  to  it,  and  so  were  the  women  that  received  them. 


TIIK  LADIES'  HEADER.  265 

Neither  were  the  children  sad  or  dull,  who  lived  so  familiar- 
ly with  tin-  dm-  and  the  birds,  and  swam  that  clear  wave  in 
the  >hado\v  of  tin-  Seven  Sisters.  The  whole  scene  suggested 
to  me  a  (ireek  splendor,  a  Greek  sweetness,  and  I  can  believe 
that  an  Indian  brave,  accustomed  to  ramble  in  such  paths,  and 
be  bathed  by  such  sunbeams,  might  be  mistaken  for  Apollo,  as 
Apollo  was  for  him  by  West.  Two  of  the  boldest  bluffs  are 
called  the  1  K-n -'s  Walk,  (not  because  deerdo  not  walk  there),  and 
the  Eagle's  nest.  The  latter  I  visited  one  glorious  morning  ;  it 
was  that  of  the  fourth  of  July,  and  certainly  I  think  I  had 
frit  M»  happy  that  1  was  born  in  America.  Woe  to  all 
country  folks  that  never  saw  this  spot,  never  swept  an  enrap- 
ture'1  pi/r  over  the  prospect  that  stretched  beneath.  I  do 
believe  Koine  and  Florence  are  suburbs  compared  to  this  capi- 
tal of  Nature's  art. 

The  bluff  was  decked  with  great  bunches  of  a  scarlet  variety 
of  the  milkweed,  like  cut  coral,  and  all  starred  with  a  mysteri- 
ous-looking dark  ilower,  whose  cup  rose  lonely  on  a  tall  stem. 
This  had,  for  two  or  three  days,  disputed  the  ground  with  the 
lupine  and  phlox.  My  companions  disliked,  I  liked  it. 


HELLVELLY]S.— SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

I  climb'd  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hellvellyn, 

Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleam'd  misty  and  wide ; 

All  was  .still,  save  by  fits  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 

On  the  right,  Strid.'ii-ed^e  round  the  Red-tarn  was  bending, 

And  CatrlR-dieam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 

One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 

When  I  mark'd  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  the  spot  mid  the  brown  meadow  heather, 

Where  the  pilgrim  of  nature  lay  stretch'd  in  decay, — 
Like  the  course  of  an  outcast  abandon'd  to  weather, 

Till  the  mountain-winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 

For  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 

The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 

And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  them  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber? 

When  the  wind  waved  his  «rarment  how  oft  didst  thou  start? 
How  many  lon^r  days  and  Inn^  weeks  didst  thou  number, 

Ere  he  faded  before  tliee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart? 


266  THE   LADIES'  HEADER. 

And,  oh !  was  it  meet,  that — no  requiem  read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretch'd  before  him — 
Unhonor'd  the  pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

"When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant  has  yielded, 

The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall ; 
"With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 
Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are  gleaming, 
In  the  proudly-arch'd  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming, 
Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb ; 

When,  wilder'd  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake  lying, 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying, 

"With  one  faithful  friend  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


THE  RAVEN— EDGAR  A.  POE. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
"While  I  ponder'd,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 

Volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
"While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 

Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visiter,"  I  mutter' d, 

"  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember, 
It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember 

Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wish'd  the  morrow; 
Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 

Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — v 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


TILE  LADIES'  READER.  267 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrill'd  me— fill'd  me  with  fantastic 

Terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  no\v,  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visiter  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door- 
Some  late  visiter  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ; 

Hesitating  then  no  longer, 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping, 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you," 

Hero  I  open'd  wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more !    , 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering, 
Long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before  : 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  the  darkness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whisper'd  word,  "Lenore!" 
This  /  whisper'd,  and  an  echo 

Murmur'd  back  the  word  "  Lenore  1" 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  into  the  chamber  turning, 
All  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping 

Somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment, 

And  this  mystery  explore  ; 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more  I" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 
AVli.-ti,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepp'd  a  stately  raven 
Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 


268  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ; 

Not  an  instant  stopp'd  or  stay'd  he ; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 
Perch'd  above  my  chamber  door  — 

Perch'd  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 
Just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perch'd,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 

My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  raven, 

"Wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore !" 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvell'd  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — 

Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  bless'd  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely 
On  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  utter'd — 
Not  a  feather  then  he  flutter'd — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  mutter'd 

"  Other  friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me, 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said  "Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 

By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters 

Is  its  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Follow'd  fast  and  follow'd  faster 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  269 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  the 
Melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  *  Nevermore  ' — of  '  Nevermore.'  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheel'd  a  cushion'd  seat  in 

Front  of  bird,  and  bust  and  door ; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 

Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now 

Burn'd  into  my  bosom's  core ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining, 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er; 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfum'd  from  an  unseen  censer, 
Swung  by  angels  whose  faint  foot-falls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch/'  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore  1 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore  1" 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore.'' 

"Prophet,"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil  I— 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  toss'd  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted, 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? 

Tell  me— tell  me,  I  implore  !" 

Quotli  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 


270  THE   LADIES'  READER, 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil — 

Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil  I 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 

By  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 

"Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting, 
Bird  or  fiend  1"  I  shriek'd,  upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 

And  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken! — 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart, 

And  take  thy  form  from  off'  my  door!" 

Quoth  the  raven  "Nevermore." 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting, 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon  that  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming 

Throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore ! 


THE  BROOKLET— WM.  G.  SIMMS. 

A  little  farther  on,  there  is  a  brook 

Where  the  breeze  lingers  idly.     The  high  trees 

Have  roofed  it  with  the  crowding  limbs  and  leaves, 

So  that  the  sun  drinks  not  from  its  sweet  fount, 

And  the  shade  cools  it.     You  may  hear  it  now, 

A  low,  faint  beating,  as,  upon  the  leaves, 

That  lie  beneath  its  rapids,  it  descends 

In  a  fine,  showery  rain,  that  keeps  one  tune, 

And  'tis  a  sweet  one,  still  of  constancy. 


TI1K    LADIKS-   READER.  271 

Beside  its  banks,  through  the  whole  livelong  day, 
Ere  yet  I  noted  much  the  speed  of  time, 
And  knew  him  but  in  songs  and  ballad-books, 
Nor  cared  to  know  him  better,  I  have  lain ; 
With  thought  unchid  by  harsher  din  than  camo 
From  the  thick  thrush,  that,  gliding  through  the  copse, 
Hurried  above  me  ;  or  the  timid  fawn 
That  came  down  to  the  brooklet's  edge  to  drink, 
And  sauntered  through  its  shade,  cropping  the  grass, 
Even  where  I  lay— having  a  quiet  mood, 
And  not  disturbing,  while-  surveying  mine. 

Thou  smilest — and  on  thy  lips  a  straying  thought 

have  tritled — calls  my  hours  misspent, 
And  looks  a  solemn  warning!     A  true  thought — 
And  so  my  errant  mood  were  well  rebuked  I — 
Yet  there  was  pleasant  sadness  that  became 
Meetly  the  gentle  heart  and  pliant  sense, 
In  that  same  idlease — gazing  on  that  brook 
So  pebbly  and  so  clear — prattling  away, 
Like  a  young  child,  all  thoughtless,  till  it  goes 
From  shadow  into  sunlight,  and  is  lost. 


POETRY  AND  NATURE.-KAi.rH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

BY  Latin  and  English  poetry,  we  were  born  and  bred  in  an 
oratorio  of  praises  of  nature — flowers,  birds,  mountains,  sun, 
and  moon;  yet  the  naturalist  of  this  hour  finds  that  he  knows 
nothing,  by  all  their  JHH-HIS,  of  any  of  these  fine  things;  that  he 
has  conversed  with  the  merest  surface  and  show  of  them  all ; 
and  of  their  essence,  or  of  their  history,  knows  nothing.  Fur- 
ther inquiry  will  discover  that  nobody — that  not  these  chanting 
poets  themselves,  knew  anything  sincere  of  these  handsome  na- 
tures they  so  commended;  that  they  contented  themselves  with 
the  passing  chirp  of  a  bird  that  they  saw  one  or  two  mornings, 
and  listlessly  looked  at  sunsets,  and  repeated  idly  these  few 
glimpses  in  their  song.  But,  go  into  the  forest,  you  shall  find 
all  new  and  undeserved.  The  screaming  of  the  wild  geese,  fly- 
ing by  night;  the  thin  note  of  the  companionable  titmouse,  in 
the  winter  day  ;  the  fall  of  swarms  of  flies  in  autumn,  from  com- 
bats high  in  the  air,  pattering  down  on  the  leaves  like  rain ;  the 
angry  hiss  of  the  wood-birds ;  the  pine  throwing  out  its  pollen 
for  the  benefit  of  the  next  century ;  the  turpentine  exuding 
from  the  tree — and,  indeed,  any  vegetation — any  animation, 
any  and  all  are  alike  unattempted.  The  man  who  stands  on 


272  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

the  sea-shore,  or  who  rambles  in  the  woods,  seems  to  be  the 
first  man  that  ever  stood  on  the  shore,  or  entered  a  strove,  his 
sensations  and  his  world  are  so  novel  and  strange.  ^Whilst  I 
read  the  poets,  I  think  that  nothing  new  can  be  said  about 
morning  and  evening ;  but  when  I  see  the  daybreak,  I  am  not 
reminded  of  these  Homeric,  or  Shakspearian,  or  Miltonic,  or 
Chaucerian  pictures.  No ;  but  I  feel,  perhaps,  the  pain  of  an 
alien  world — a  world  not  yet  subdued  by  the  thought ;  or  I  am 
cheered  by  the  moist,  warm,  glittering,  budding,  melodious 
hour,  that  takes  down  the  narrow  walls  of  my  soul,  and  extends 
its  life  and  pulsation  to  the  very  horizon.  That  is  morning,  to 
cease  for  a  bright  hour  to  be  a  prisoner  of  this  sickly  body,  and 
to  become  as  large  as  nature. 

The  noonday  darkness  of  the  American  forest,  the  deep, 
echoing  aboriginal  woods,  where  the  living  columns  of  the  oak 
and  fir  tower  up  from  the  ruins  of  the  trees  of  the  last  millen- 
nium ;  where,  from  year  to  year,  the  eagle  and  the  crow  see  no 
intruder;  the  pines,  bearded  with  savage  moss,  yet  touched 
with  grace  by  the  violets  at  their  feet ;  the  broad,  cold  low- 
land, which  forms  its  coat  of  vapor  with  the  stillness  of  subter- 
ranean crystallization ;  and  where  the  traveler  amid  the  repul- 
sive plants  that  are  native  in  the  swamp,  thinks  with  pleasing 
terror  of  the  distant  town ;  this  beauty — haggard  and  desert 
beauty,  which  the  sun  and  the  moon,  the  snow  and  the  rain  re- 
paint and  vary,  has  never  been  recorded  by  art,  yet  is  not  indif- 
ferent to  any  passenger.  All  men  are  poets  at  heart.  They 
serve  nature  for  bread,  but  her  loveliness  overcomes  them  some- 
times. What  mean  these  journeys  to  Niagara;  these  pilgrims 
to  the  White  Hills  ?  Men  believe  in  the  adaptations  of  utility, 
always.  In  the  mountains,  they  may  believe  in  the  adaptations 
of  the  eye.  Undoubtedly,  the  changes  of  geology  have  a  rela- 
tion to  the  prosperous  sprouting  of  the  corn  and  peas  in  my 
kitchen  garden ;  but  not  less  is  there  a  relation  of  beauty  be- 
tween my  soul  and  the  dim  crags  of  Agiocochook  up  there  in 
the  clouds.  Every  man,  when  this  is  told,  hearkens  with  joy, 
and  yet  his  own  conversation  with  nature  is  still  unsung. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  273 


THE  WIDOW  OF  XAIN.-N.  P.  WILLIS. 

The  Roman  sentinel  stood  helm'd  and  tall 
Beside  the  gate  of  Nain.     The  busy  tread 
Of  comers  to  the  city  mart  was  done, 
For  it  was  almost  noon,  and  a  dead  heat 
Quiver'd  upon  the  line  and  sleeping  dust, 
And  the  cold  snake  crept  panting  from  the  wall, 
And  bask'd  his  scaly  circles  in  the  sun. 
Upon  his  spear  the  soldier  lean'd,  and  kept 
His  idle  watch,  and,  as  his  drowsy  dream 
Was  broken  by  the  solitary  foot 
Of  some  poor  mendicant,  he  raised  his  head 
To  curse  him  for  a  tributary  Jew, 
And  sluinberously  dozed  on. 

'Tvvas  now  high  noon. 
The  dull,  low  murmur  of  a  funeral 
Went  through  the  city — the  sad  sound  of  feet 
Unmix'd  with  voices — and  the  sentinel 
Shook  off  his  slumber,  and  gazed  earnestly 
Up  the  wide  streets,  along  whose  paved  way 
The  silent  throng  crept  slowly.     They  came  on, 
Bearing  a  body  heavily  on  its  bier, 
A  ml  by  the  crowd  that  in  the  burning  sun, 
Walk'd  with  forgetful  sadness,  'twas  of  one 
Mourn'd  with  unc-ommon  sorrow.     The  broad  gate 
Swung  on  its  hinges,  and  the  Roman  bent 
His  spear-point  downwards  as  the  bearers  pass'd, 
Bending  beneath  tlu.-ir  burden.     There  was  one — 
Only  one  mourner.     Close  behind  the  bier, 
Crumpling  the  pall  up  in  her  wither'd  hands, 
Follow'd  an  aged  woman.     Her  short  steps 
Falter'd  with  weakness,  and  a  broken  moan 
Fell  from  her  lips,  thicken'd  convulsively 
As  her  heart  bled  afresh.     The  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  apart,  but  no  one  spoke  to  her. 
She  had  no  kinsmen.     She  had  lived  alone — 

:<>\v  with  <>ii<-  son.     He  was  her  all — 
The  only  tie  she  had  in  the  wide  world, 
And  he  was  dead.     They  could  not  .comfort  her. 

Jesus  drew  near  to  Nain  as  from  the  gate 
The  funeral  came  forth.     His  lips  were  pale 
With  the  noon's  sultry  heat.     The  beaded  sweat 
Stood  thickly  on  his  brow,  and  on  the  worn 
And  simple  latehets  of  his  sandals  lay, 
Thick,  the  white  dust  of  travel.     He  had  come 
Since  sunrise  from  Capernaum,  staying  not 
To  wet  his  lips  by  green  Bet  lisa  ida's  pool, 
18 


274  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Nor  wash  his  feet  in  Kishon's  silver  springs, 
Nor  turn  him  southward  upon  Tabor's  side 
To  catch  Gilboa's  light  and  spicy  breeze. 
Genesareth  stood  cool  upon  the  East, 
Fast  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  and  there 
The  weary  traveler  might  bide  till  eve ; 
And  on  the  alders  of  Bethulia's  plains 
The  grapes  of  Palestine  hung  ripe  and  wild ; 
Yet  turn'd  he  not  aside,  but,  gazing  on, 
From  every  swelling  mount  he  saw  afar, 
Amid  the  hills,  the  humble  spires  of  Nain, 
The  place  of  his  next  errand ;  and  the  path 
Touch'd  not  Bethulia,  and  a  league  away, 
Upon  the  East  lay  pleasant  Galilee. 

Forth  from  the  city-gate  the  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  the  stricken  mourner.     They  came  near 
The  place  of  burial,  and,  with  straining  hands, 
Closer  upon  her  breast  she  clasp'd  the  pall, 
And  with  a  gasping  sob,  quick  as  a  child's, 
And  an  inquiring  wildness  flashing  through 
The  thin  gray  lashes  of  her  fever'd  eyes, 
She  came  where  Jesus  stood  beside  the  way. 
He  look'd  upon  her,  and  his  heart  was  moved. 
"Weep  not!"  he  said;  and  as  they  stay'd the  bier, 
And  at  his  bidding  laid  it  at  his  feet, 
He  gently  drew  the  pall  from  out  her  grasp, 
And  laid  it  back  in  silence  from  the  dead. 
With  troubled  wonder  the  mute  throng  drew  near, 
And  gazed  on  his  calm  looks.     A  minute's  space 
He  stood  and  pray'd.     Then,  taking  the  cold  hand, 
He  said,  "Arise  !"     And  instantly  the  breast 
Heaved  in  its  cerements,  and  a  sudden  flush 
Ran  through  the  lines  of  the  divided  lips, 
And  with  a  murmur  of  his  mother's  name. 
He  trembled  and  sat  upright  in  his  shroud. 
And,  while  the  mourner  hung  upon  his  neck, 
Jesus  went  calmly  on  his  way  to  Nain. 


SPRING  IN  ElYENNA.— LEIGH  HUNT. 

The  sun  is  up,  and  'tis-  a  morn  of  May, 

Round  old  Ravenna's  clear-shown  towers  and  hay; 

A  morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen, 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green ; 

For  a  warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night, 

Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 

And  there's  a  crystal  clearness  all  about ; 

Ttie  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out ; 


THE  LADIES'  READER, 

A  balmy  briskness  comes  upon  the  breeze ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees  ; 

And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a  coil, 

Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil ; 

And  all  the  scene,  in  short — sky,  earth  and  sea — 

Breathes  like  a  bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out  openly 

uure,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing  : — 
The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing, 
Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down, 
"Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town: 
"While  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen  ; 
And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattery  light, 
Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wish'd-for  day, 
And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the  bay 


TO  A  WATERFOWL  -WILLIAM  CULLKN  BRYANT. 


Whither,  'miJ.^  Jailing  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way! 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  power  whose  can- 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fann'd 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not.  \\-cary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon  o'er  thy  shelter'd  nest. 


276  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow'd  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THE  FALLS  OF  NIAGARA.— JOHN  HOWISON. 

Now  that  I  propose  to  attempt  a  description  of  the  Falls  of 
Niagara,  I  feel  myself  threatened  with  a  return  of  those  throbs 
of  trembling  expectation  which  agitated  me  on  my  first  visit  to 
those  stupendous  cataracts ;  and  to  which  every  person  of  the 
least  sensibility  is  liable,  when  he  is  on  the  eve  of  seeing  any 
thing  that  has  strongly  excited  his  curiosity,  or  powerfully  af- 
fected his  imagination.  The  form  of  Niagara  Falls  is  that  of 
an  irregular  semicircle,  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  extent. 
This  is  divided  into  two  distinct  cascades,  by  the  intervention 
of  Goat  Island,  the  extremity  of  which  is  perpendicular,  and  in 
a  line  with  the  precipice  over  which  the  water  is  projected.  The 
cataract  on  the  Canada  side  of  the  river  is  called  the  Horseshoe 
or  Great  Fall,  from  its  peculiar  form,  and  that  next  the  United 
States,  the  American  Fall. 

The  Table  Rock,  from  which  the  Falls  of  Niagara  may  be 
contemplated  in  all  their  grandeur,  lies  on  an  exact  level  with 
the  edge  of  the  cataract  on  the  Canada  side,  and,  indeed,  forms 
a  part  of  the  precipice  over  which  the  water  gushes.  It  de- 
rives its  name  from  the  circumstance  of  its  projecting  beyond 
the  cliffs  that  support  it,  like  the  leaf  of  a  table.  To  gain  this 
position,  it  is  necessary  to  descend  a  steep  bank,  and  to  follow 
a  path  that  winds  among  shrubbery  and  trees,  which  entirely 
conceal  from  the  eye  the  scene  that  awaits  him  who  traverses 
it.  When  near  the  termination  of  this  road,  a  few  steps  carried 
me  beyond  all  these  obstructions,  and  a  magnificent  amphi- 
theatre of  cataracts  bursts  upon  my  view  with  appalling  sudden- 
ness and  majesty.  However,  in  a  moment  the  scene  was  con- 
cealed from  my  eyes  by  a  dense  cloud  of  spray,  which  involved 
me  so  completely  that  I  did  not  dare  to  extricate  myself.  A 
mingled  rushing  and  thundering  filled  my  ears.  I  could  see 


TIIK  LADIES'   READER.  277 

nothing  except  when  the  wind  made  a  chasm  in  the  spray,  and 
then  tremendous  cataracts  seemed  to  encompass  me  en  every 
side ;  while  below,  a  raging  and  foamy  gulf  of  undiscoverable 
extent  lashed  the  rocks  with  its  hissing  waves,  and  swallowed, 
under  a  horrible  obscurity,  the  smoking  floods  that  were  pre- 
cipitated into  its  bosom. 

At  first  the  sky  was  obscured  by  clouds ;  but  after  a  few 
minutes  the  sun  burst  forth,  and  the  breeze  subsiding  at  the 
same  time,  permitted  the  spray  to  ascend  perpendicularly.  A 
host  of  pyramidal  clouds  rose  majestically,  one  after  another, 
from  the  abyss  at  the  bottom  of  the  foil ;  and  each,  when  it  had 
ascended  a  little  above  the  edge  of  the  cataract,  displayed  a 
beautiful  rainbow,  which  in  a  few  rtloments  was  gradually 
tran>ti  rrcd  into  the  bosom  of  the  cloud  that  immediately  suc- 
•  1.  The  spray  of  the  Great  Fall  had  extended  itself 
through  a  \\  ide  space  directly  over  me,  and,  receiving  the  full 
influence  of  the  sun,  exhibited  a  luminous  and  magnificent 
rainbow,  which  continued  to  overarch  and  irradiate  the  spot  on 
which  I  stood,  while  I  enthusiastically  contemplated  the  inde- 
s.-ribable  scene. 

The  body  of  water  which  composes  the  middle  part  of  the 
Great  Fall  is  so  immense  that  it  descends  nearly  two-thirds  of 
the  space  without  being  ruffled  or  broken;  and  the  solemn 
calmness  with  which  it  rolls  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice  is 
finely  contrasted  with  the  perturbed  appearance  it  assumes 
after  having  reached  the  gulf  below.  But  the  water  toward 
i -ach  side  of  the  fall  is  shattered  the  moment  it  drops  over  the 
rock,  ami  loses  as  it  descends,  in  a  great,  measure,  the  character 
of  a  fluid,  being  divided  into  pyramidal-shaped  fragments,  the 
of  \\hi.-li  are  turned  upwards.  The  surface  of  the  gulf 
below  the  cataract  presents  a  very  singular  aspect;  seeming,  as 
it  were,  filled  with  an  immense  quantity  of  hoar  frost,  which  is 
agitated  by  small  and  rapid  undulations.  The  particles  of  water 
arc  dazzlingly  white,  and  do  not  apparently  unite  together,  as 
miuht  be  supposed,  but  seem  to  continue  for  a  time  in  a  state 
of  distinct  comminution,  and  to  repel  each  other  with  a  thrill- 
ing and  shivering  motion  which  cannot  easily  be  described. 

The  noise  made  by  the  Horseshoe  Fall,  though  very  great,  is 
far  less  than  might  lie  expected,  and  varies  in  loudness  accord- 
ing to  the  state  of  the,  atmosphere.  When  the  weather  is  clear 
and  frosty,  it  may  be  distinctly  heard  at  the  distance  of  ten  or 
twelve  miles— nay,  much  farther  when  there  is  a  steady  breeze; 
but  I  have  frequently  stood  upon  the  declivity  of  the  high  bank 


278  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

that  overlooks  the  Table  Rock,  and  distinguished  a  low  thun- 
dering only,  which  at  times  was  altogether  drowned  amid  the 
roaring  of  the  rapids  above  the  cataract.  In  my  opinion,  the 
concave  shape  of  the  Great  Fall  explains  this  circumstance. 
The  noise  vibrates  from  one  side  of  the  rocky  recess  to  the 
other,  and  only  a  little  escapes  from  its  confinement ;  and  even 
this  is  less  distinctly  heard  than  it  would  otherwise  be,  as  the 
profusion  of  spray  renders  the  air  near  the  cataract  a  very  indif- 
ferent conductor  of  sound. 

The  road  to  the  bottom  of  the  fall  presents  many  more  diffi- 
culties than  that  which  leads  to  the  Table  Rock.  After  leaving 
the  Table  Rock,  the  traveler  must  proceed  down  the  river  nearly 
half  a  mile,  where  he  will  come  to  a  small  chasm  in  the  bank, 
in  which  there  is  a  spiral  staircase  enclosed  in  a  wooden  build- 
ing. By  descending  this  stair,  which  is  seventy  or  eighty  feet 
in  perpendicular  height,  he  will  find  himself  under  the  preci- 
pice, on  the  top  of  which  he  formerly  walked.  A  high  but 
sloping  bank  extends  from  its  base  to  the  edge  of  the  river ;  and 
on  the  summit  of  this  there  is  a  narrow,  slippery  path,  covered 
with  angular  fragments  of  rock,  which  leads  to  the  Great  Fall. 
The  impending  cliffs,  hung  with  a  profusion  of  trees  and  brush- 
wood, overarch  this  road,  and  seem  to  vibrate  with  the  thun- 
ders of  the  cataract.  In  some  places  they  rise  abruptly  to  the 
height  of  one  hundred  feet,  and  display  upon  their  surfaces  fos- 
sils, shells,  and  the  organic  remains  of  a  former  world ;  thus  sub- 
limely leading  the  mind  to  contemplate  the  convulsions  which 
nature  has  undergone  since  the  creation. 

As  the  traveler  advances,  he  is  frightfully  stunned  by  the  ap- 
palling noise ;  for  clouds  of  spray  sometimes  envelop  him,  and 
suddenly  check  his  faltering  steps ;  rattlesnakes  start  from  the 
cavities  of  the  rocks,  and  the  screams  of  eagles  soaring  among 
the  whirlwinds  of  eddying  vapor,  which  obscure  the  gulf  of  the 
cataract,  at  intervals  announce  that  the  raging  waters  have 
hurled  some  bewildered  animal  over  the  precipice.  After 
scrambling  among  piles  of  huge  rocks  that  obstruct  his  way, 
the  traveler  gains  the  bottom  of  the  fall,  where  the  soul  can  be 
susceptible  of  but  one  'emotion,  namely,  that  of  uncontrollable 
terror.  It  was  not  until  I  had,  by  frequent  excursions  to  the 
falls,  in  some  measure  familiarized  my  mind  with  their  sublimi- 
ties, that  I  ventured  to  explore  the  penetralia  of  the  great  cata- 
ract. The  precipice  over  which  it  rolls  is  very  much  arched 
underneath ;  while  the  impetus  which  the  water  receives  in  its 


THH    LADIKS'   UKADER.  279 

descent  projects  it  far  beyond  the  cliff,  and  thus  an  immense 
Gothic  arch  is  formed  by  the  rock  and  the  torrent. 

Twice  I  entered  this  cavern,  and  twice  I  was  obliged  to  re- 
trace my  steps  lest  I  should  be  suffocated  by  the  blasts  of  dense 
spray  that  whirled  around  me ;  however,  the  third  time  I  suc- 
ceeded in  advancing  about  twenty-five  yards.  Here  darkness 
be^an  to  encircle  me;  on  one  side  the  black  cliff  stretched 
itself  into  a  gigantic  arch  far  above  my  head,  and  on  the  other 
the  dense  and  hissing  torrent  formed  an  impenetrable  sheet  of 
foam,  with  which  I  was  drenched  in  a  moment.  The  rocks 
\\eiv  so  slippery  that  I  could  hardly  keep  my  feet,  or  hold  se- 
curely by  them  ;  while  the  horrid  din  made  me  think  the  preci- 
-  above  were  tumbling  down  in  colossal  fragments  upon  my 

head. 

It  is  not  easy  to  determine  how  far  an  individual  might  ad- 

l>etween  the  sheet  of  water  and  the  rock;  but  were  it 

even   possible  to  explore  the  recess  to  its  utmost  extremity, 

*e;uve|\-  any  one,  I  believe,  would  have  courage  to  attempt  an 

ditiou  of  the  kind. 

A  little  way  below  the  Great  Fall  the  river  is,  comparatively 
speaking  tranquil,  so  that  a  ferry  boat  plies  between  the  Canada 
and  American  shores  for  the  convenience  of  travelers.  When  I 
first  crossed,  the  heaving  flood  tossed  about  the  skiff  with  a  vio- 
that  seemed  very  alarming;  but  as  soon  as  we  gained  the 
middle  of  the  river,  my  attention  was  altogether  engaged  by  the 
surpassing  grandeur  of  the  scene  before  me.  I  was  now  within 
the  area  of  a  semicircle  of  cataracts,  more  than  three  thousand 
feet  in  extent,  and  floated  on  the  surface  of  a  gulf  raging  fathom- 
less and  interminable.  Majestic  cliffs,  splendid  rainbows,  lofty 
.  and  columns  of  spray  were  the  gorgeous  decorations  of 
this  theatre  of  wonders,  while  a  dazzling  sun  shed  refulgent 
glories  upon  every  part  of  the  scene. 

Surrounded  with  clouds  of  vapor,  and  stunned  into  a  state  of 
eonfusion  and  terror  by  the  hideous  noise,  I  looked  upward  to 
the  height  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  and  saw  vast  floods, 
dense,  awful,  ami  .stupendous,  vehemently  bursting  over  the  pre- 
eipier,  and  rolling  d..\\n,  as  it'  the  windows  of  heaven  were  open, 
to  p.  >nr  another  delu<n;  upon  the  earth.  Loud  sounds,  resem- 
bling discharges  of  artillery  or  volcanic  explosions,  were  now 
distinguishable  among  the  watery  tumult,  and  added  terrors  to 
the  abyss  from  which  they  issued.  The  sun,  looking  majestic- 
ally through  the  ascending  spray,  was  encircled  by  a  radiant 
halo,  whilst  frairmeMK  of  rainbows  floated  on  every  side,  and 


280  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

momentarily  vanished,  only  to  give  place  to  a  succession  of 
others  more  brilliant.  Looking  backward  I  saw  the  Niagara 
River,  again  become  calm  and  tranquil,  rolling  magnificently 
between  the  towering  cliffs  that  rose  on  either  side,  and  re- 
ceiving showers  of  orient  dewdrops  from  the  trees  that  grace- 
fully overarched  its  transparent  bosom. 

The  Niagara  Falls  appear  to  the  observer  of  a  magnitude  in- 
ferior to  what  they  really  are,  because  the  objects  surrounding 
do  not  bear  a  due  proportion  to  them.  The  river,  cliffs,  and 
trees  are  on  a  comparatively  small  scale,  and  add  little  to  the 
composition  or  grandeur  of  the  scene ;  therefore  he  who  con- 
templates the  cataract  reduces  them  to  such  dimensions  as  cor- 
respond with  those  of  the  contiguous  objects;  thus  divesting  one 
part  of  the  scene  of  a  good  deal  of  magnificence,  without  com- 
municating any  additional  grandeur  to  the  other. 

There  have  been  instances  of  people  being  carried  over  the 
falls,  but  I  believe  none  of  the  bodies  were  ever  found.  The 
rapidity  of  the  river,  before  if  tumbles  down  the  precipice,  is  so 
great,  that  a  human  body  would  certainly  be  whirled  along 
without  sinking ;  therefore  some  of  those  individuals,  to  whom 
I  allude,  probably  retained  their  senses  till  they  reached  the 
edge  of  the  cataract,  and  even  looked  down  upon  the  gulf  into 
which  they  were  the  next  moment  precipitated. 

Many  years  ago,  an  Indian,  while  attempting  to  cross  the 
river  above  the  falls  in  a  canoe,  had  his  paddle  struck  from  his 
hands  by  the  rapidity  of  the  currents.  He  was  immediately 
hurried  toward  the  cataract,  and,  seeing  that  death  was  inevit- 
able, he  covered  his  head  with  his  cloak,  and  resigned  himself 
to  destruction.  However,  when  he  approached  the  edge  of  the 
cataract,  shuddering  nature  revolted  so  strongly  that  he  was 
seen  to  start  up  and  stretch  out  his  arms  ;  but  the  canoe  upset, 
and  he  was  instantly  ingulfed  amidst  the  fury  of  the  boiling 
surge. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  281 


AND  HER 

A  Shepherd's  Cottage. 
Enter  FLORIZEL  and  PERDITA. 

Flo.    These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life:  no  shepherdess;  but  Flora, 
Peering  in  April's  front.     This  your  sheep-shearing 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on't. 

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

To  chide  at  your  extremes,  it  not  becomes  me  ; 
0,  pardon,  that  I  name  them :  your  high  self, 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
With  a  swain's  \vcarinir:  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up  :   But  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attired  ;  sworn,  I  think, 
\v  myself  a  glass. 

Flo.  I  bless  the  time, 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 
Thy  father's  ground. 

Per.  X«  >w  Jove  afford  you  cause  ! 

To  me,  the  difference  forges  dread ;  your  greatness 
Hath  not  been  us'd  to  fear.     Even  now  I  tremble 
To  think,  your  father,  by  some  accident, 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did :  0,  the  fates ! 
How  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  noble, 
Vilely  bound  up  ?  What  would  he  say  ?  Or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 
-ternness  of  his  presence? 

Flo.  Apprehend 

Nothing. 

Per.  0  but,  dear  sir, 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  'tis 
Oppos'd,  as  it  must  be,  by  the  power  o'  the  king ; 
One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities, 

Which  thru  will  speak;  that  you  must  change  this  purpose, 
Or  I  my  life. 

Flo.  Thou  dearest  Perdita, 

With  these  forc'd  thoughts,  I  pr'ythee,  darken  not 
The  mirth  o'  the  feast :  Or  I'll  be  thine,  my  fair, 
Or  not  my  father's ;  For  I  cannot  bo 
Mine  own,  nor  any  tiling  to  any,  if 
I  be  not  thinu:  to  this  I  am  most  constant, 
Though  destiny  say,  no.     IU.-  merry,  gentle; 
Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these,  with  any  thing 
That  you  behold  the  while.     Your  guests  are  coming : 
Lift  up  your  countenance ;  as  it  were  the  day 


282  •  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  0  lady  fortune 

Stand  you  auspicious ! 

Enter  Shepherd,  with  POLIXENES  and  CAMILLO  disguised;  Clown,  MOPSA, 

DORCAS,  and  others. 

Flo.  See,  your  guests  approach ; 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly, 
And  let's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Shep.  Fye,  daughter!  when  my  old  wife  liv'd  upon 
This  day,  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook; 
Both  dame  and  servant ;  welcom'd  all ;  serv'd  all : 
Would  sing  her  song  and  dance  her  turn ;  now  here, 
At  upper  end  o'  the  table,  now,  i1  the  middle  ; 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his :  her  face  o'  fire 
With  labor ;  and  the  thing,  she  took  to  quench  it, 
She  would  to  each  one  sip :    You  are  retir'd, 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting :  Pray  you,  -bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  us  welcome :  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes ;  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'  the  feast :  Come  on, 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing, 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.  Welcome,  sir!  [To  POL. 

It  is  my  father's  will,  I  should  take  on  me 
The  hostess-ship  o1  the  day: — You're  welcome,  sir! 

[To  CAMILLO. 

Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas.     Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there's  rosemary,  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming,  and  savour,  all  the  winter  long: 
Grace,  and  remembrance,  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing  ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

(A  fair  one  are  you,)  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Per.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient-* 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter — the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streak'd  gillyflowers. 
Here's  flowers  for  you  ; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram ; 
The  marigold,  that  go  to  bed  with  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeping ;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age :  You  are  very  welcome. 

Cam.  I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your  flock, 
And  only  live  by  gazing. 

Per.  Out,  alas ! 

You'd  be  so  lean  that  blasts  of  January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through. — Now,  my  fairest  fnenu, 


THH   LADIES'  READER.  283 

I  would,  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring,  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day :  and  yours,  and  yours  ; 

0  Proserpina, 

For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon !  daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March,  with  beauty;  violets,  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength. 

Bold  oxlips,  and 

The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one !  0,  these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and,  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Come,  take  your  flowers : 
Methinks,  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 
In  Whitsun'  pastorals;  sure,  this  robe  of  mine 
Does  change  my  disposition. 

Flo.  "What  you  do, 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 
Id  have  you  do  it  ever;  when  you  sing, 
I'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so;  so  give  alms  ; 
Pray  so  ;  and  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
Pray  sing  them  too :     When  you  dance  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function  :  Each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular, 

•is  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

Per.    '  0  Doricles,  » 

Your  praises  are  too  largo  ;  but  that  your  youth, 
And  the  true  blood  which  fairly  peeps  through  it, 
I  to  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd ; 
With  wisdom  1  'might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You'd  woo  me  the  the  false  way. 

Flo.  I  think,  you  have 

As  little  skill  to  fear,  as  I  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to 't . — But,  come ;  our  dance,  I  pray : 
Your  band,  my  Pcrdita:  so  turtles  pair, 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

7V,-.  I'll  swear  for  'em. 

I'ul.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Kan  on  the,  greensward:  nothing  she  does  or  seems 

macks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Tuo  noble  for  this  place. 

Cam.  lie  tells  her  something, 
That  makes  her  blood  look  out :  Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Clu.  Come  on,  strike  up  music. 


284  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS.-HooD. 
"Drowned!  drowned  I"— Hamlet. 

One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; — 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
"Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gentle  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother? 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  285 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas '  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun! 
Oh !  it  was  pitiful  I 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 
Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  winds  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  nor  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river ; 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd— 
Anywhere,  anywhere, 
Out  of  the  world  I 

In  she  plunged  boldly 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran — 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man  I 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Kn-  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently — kindly — 
Smoothe  and  compose  them; 
Ami  lu-i-  eyes,  dose  them, 
Staring  so  blindly, 


286  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing, 
Fixed  on  futurity ! 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly. 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE—FREDERICK  s.  COZZENS. 

We  begin  to  enjoy  the  clouds  since  we  have  moved  out  of 
town.  The  city  sky  is  all  strips  and  patches ;  but  the  sky  of 
the  country  forms  a  very  comfortable  whole.  Then,  you  have 
the  horizon,  of  which  you  get  an  imperfect  idea  if  you  live  in 
a  crooked  street ;  and  besides,  you  can  see  distant  rain  storms 
passing  over  far-off  landscapes,  and  as  the  light-winged  breeze 
comes  sweeping  up  and  you  feel  the  approaching  dampness, 
there  is  a  freshness  and  fragrance  in  it  which*  is  not  at  all  like 
the  miasmatic  exhalations  of  a  great  city.  Then,  when  the 
rain  does  come  it  is  not  simply  an  inconvenience,  as  it  always 
is  in  town,  but  a  real  blessing,  which  even  the  stupid  old  cab- 
bages know  enough  to  enjoy.  I  think  our  musk-melons  feel 
better  now,  as  they  lie  there  in  sandy  beds  sucking  the  delicious 
fluid  through  their  long  vinous  tubes.  I  think  our  Shaker 
corn,  as  he  gives  himself  a  rousing  shake,  and  flings  the  big 
drops  around  him,  does  so  with  a  species  of  boisterous  joy,  as 
if  he  could  not  have  too  much  of  it ;  and  Monsieur  Tomato, 
who  is  capering  like  Humpty  Dumpty  on  the  wall,  is  evidently 
in  high  feather,  which  is  not  the  case  with  our  forlorn  rooster, 
who  is  but  poorly  protected  under  the  old  basket,  yonder. 
The  rain  came  from  the  southwest.  We  saw  the  clouds  rolling 
up  over  the  Palisades  in  round  masses,  with  a  movement  like 


THK    LADIES'  READER.  og? 

puffs  of  smoke  rolling  up  from  the  guns  of  a  frigate.  It  was 
a  dead  calm  ;  not  a  pensile  leaf  twinkled  ;  the  flat  expanse  of 
the  river  was  without  a  ripple.  We  saw  the  conglomerated 
volumes  of  snow-white  vapor  ascending  to  the  zenith,  and  be- 
low lay  the  Hudson,  roughening  in  the  now  audibly  approach- 
ing breeze.  Meanwhile  the  sky  grew  ashy  pale  in  the  south- 
\\v-t,  and  the  big  clouds  overhead  were  sometimes  veined  with 
lightning,  which  was  reflected  momently  by  the  darkening 
water.  Just  below  us  we  heard  the  quick  rattle  of  the  rings, 
as  the  wood  sloops  dropped  and  reefed  their  broad  sails  in  anti- 
cipation of  the  «quall.  Everything  around  us  reposed  in  a  sort 
of  supernatural  twilight,  the  grass  turned  gray  and  old,  the 
tree  trunks  changed  to  iron,  the  air  seemed  denser,  sullener, 
sultrier.  Then  a  little  breeze  prattled  through  the  chestnuts, 
and  whitened  the  poplars.  Then  it  subsided.  Then  the  white 
cloud  above  appeared  a  tangle  of  dazzling  light,  and  a  sharp 
fusiladc  followed  on  the  instant.  Then  Mrs.  "Sparrowgrass  got 
frightened,  and  said  she  must  go  in,  and  as  she  said  so,  the 
wind  pounced  upon  her  and  carried  up  her  sunbonnet  at  least 
three  hundred  feet  above  tide  water.  Then  it  slammed  to 
every  door  in  the  house,  prostrated  my  Lima  beans,  howled 
down  the  chimney,  roared  and  whistled  through  the  trees,  tore 
tin-  dust  from  the  road,  and  poured  it  through  our  open  win- 
dows, hurried  off  the  big  gate,  laid  it  on  my  pie-plants,  blew 
down  my  bee-hive,  liberated  all  my  bees,  who  instantly  settled 
upon  our  watch  dog  and  stung  him  so  that  he  ran  away  and 
did  not  return  until  the  following  Sunday. 

Nevertheless,  the  scenery  around  was  marvellously  beautiful. 
South  of  us  a  grey  rain-curtain  was  drawn  across  the  river, 
shutting  out  everything  beyond,  except  the  spectral  masts  and 
spars  of  a  schooner  riding  at  anchor.  The  Palisades  started  up 
in  the  gloom,  as  their  precipitous  masses  were  revealed  by  the 
flashes  of  unearthly  light  that  played  through  the  rolling 
rloinls.  Tin-  river  before  us,  flecked  with  snow,  stretched  away 
to  the  north,  where  it  lay  partly  in  sunshine,  under  a  blue  sky, 
dappled  with  fleecy  vapors.  Inland,  the  trees  were  twisted  in 
attitudes  strikingly  picturesque  and  novel;  the  scud  flew  be- 
fore the  blast  like  spray,  and  below  it  the  swells  and  slopes  of 
livid  ^recn  had  an  aspect  so  unusual  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  had 
been  transported  into  a  strange  place — a  far  countrie.  Our  cot- 
.  too,  which  1  had  planned  and  built,  changed  its  tinted 
walls  to  stark,  staring  white,  with  window-panes  black  as  ink. 
From  room  to  room  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  flitted  like  a  phantom, 


•288  TIIK   L.-VD1KS'  READER. 

closing  the  sashes,  and  making  all  secure.  Then  the  electric  prat- 
tled overhead  for  a  moment,  and  wound  up  with  a  roar  like  the 
explosion  of  a  stone  quarry.  Then  a  big  drop  fell  and  rolled 
itself  up  in  a  globule  of  dust  in  the  path;  then  another — 
another — another.  Then  I  bethought  me  of  my  new  straw 
hat,  and  retreated  into  the  house,  and  then — it  rained  ! 

Header,  did  you  ever  see  rain  in  the  country  ?  I  hope  you 
have ;  my  pen  is  impotent ;  I  cannot  describe  it.  The  storm 
hushed  by  degrees,  and  went  off  amid  saffron  flushes,  and  a 
glitter  of  hail.  The  western  sky  parted  its  ashy  curtains,  and 
the  rugged  Palisades  lay  warm  and  beautiful  under  the  evening 
sun.  Now  the  sun  sinks  amid  melted  topaz  and  rubies ;  and 
above  it,  on  one  side,  stretching  aloft  from  the  rocky  precipices 
high  up  in  the  azure,  is  a  crescent  of  crimson  and  golden  frag- 
ments of  clouds  !  Once  more  in  the  sunlight,  and  so  we  will 
throw  open  all  the  windows  and  let  in  the  cool  air. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  breaks  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying  I 
Blow,  bugle  !  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying  1 


MAY    MORN    SOXG.-MOTIIERWELL. 

The  grass  is  wet  with  shining  dews, 

Their  silver  bells  hang  on  each  tree, 
While  opening  flower  and  bursting  bud 

Breathe  incense  forth  unceasingly ; 
The  mavis  pipes  in  greenwood  shaw, 

The  throstle  glads  the  spreading  thorn, 
And  cheerily  the  blithesome  lark 
Salutes  the  rosy  face  of  morn. 
'T  is  early  prime : 

And  hark !  hark !  hark ! 
His  merry  chime 

Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup !  chirrup !  he  heralds  in 
The  jolly  sun  with  matin  hymn. 

Come,  come,  my  love !  and  May-dews  shake 
In  pailfuls  from  each  drooping  bough ; 

They'll  give  fresh  lustre  to  the  bloom, 
That  breaks  upon  thy  young  cheek  now. 


THE    LA1UKS'    UKADKIt. 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  waste  aud  wood, 

Aurora's  smiles  are  streaming  free ; 
With  earth  it  seems  brave  holiday, 
In  heaven  it  looks  high  jubilee. 
And  it  is  right, 

For  mark,  love,  mark ! 
How  bathed  in  light 
Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup !  chirrup  I  he  upward  flies, 
Like  holy  thoughts  to  cloudless  skies. 

They  lack  all  heart,  who  cannot  feel 

The  voice  of  heaven  within  them  thrill, 
In  summer  morn,  when,  mounting  high, 

This  merry  minstrel  sings  his  fill. 
Now  let  us  seek  yon  bosky  dell, 

Where  brightest  wild-flowers  choose  to  be, 
And  where  its  clear  stream  murmurs  on, 
Meet  type  of  our  love's  purity ; 
No  witness  there, 

And  o'er  us,  hark ! 
High  in  the  air 

Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup !  chirrup  I  away  soars  he, 
Bearing  to  heaven  my  vows  to  thee  I 


1  51LLAD  OP  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN.-OEORGK  H.  BOKEB. 

"  The  ice  was  here,  the  Ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around." — Coleridge. 

0,  whither  sail  you,  Sir  John  Franklin? 

Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 
To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the  pole 

I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way. 

I  charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 

As  you  would  live  and  thrive : 
For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 

No  man  may  sail  alive. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men : 
Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  is  right ; 

Bear  off  to  westward  then. 

0,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman  ? 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go. 
19 


290  THE  LADIES'    READER. 

Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there, 

The  little  Indian  said ; 
And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too — 

A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new ! 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled. 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

Ho !  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian's  sled! 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

Sir  John,  Sir  John,  't  is  bitter  cold, 
The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 

The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 
The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 

Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year ; 
But  long  e'er  summer's  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer. 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 
And  floundered  down  the  gale  ; 

The  ships  were  staid,  the  yards  were  manned, 
And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come, 

"We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea : 
Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin? 

A  silent  man  was  he. 

The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes— 

We  cannot  rule  the  year : 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  wherein  we'd  steer. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  291 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  tho  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more; 
'T  was  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  God !  there  is  no  sea ! 

"\Vhat  think  you  of  the  whaler  now? 

What  of  the  Esquimaux? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow. 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  northern  light  came  out, 
Aiid  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid  : 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  al  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death : 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak ! 

The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold  I 

What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 

High  o'er  the  main  flag-stafl'? 
Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 

Look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year ; 
But  summer  will  melt  tho  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  tho  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around : 
But  the  hard  green  ice  was  strong  as  death. 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath. 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

Hark  !  heard  ye  not  the  noise  of  guns  ? 

And  there,  and  there,  again? 
'T  is  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  fr'»x>^,  i  .  iin. 


292  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal : 
God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity ! 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 

Sir  John,  where  are  the  English  fields, 
And  where  are  the  English  trees, 

And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again, 
And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 

The  grass  and  the  waving  grain. 

Oh!  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me. 
Oh !  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again. 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek ; 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

Ah !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 
The  ice  grows  more  and  more ; 

More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 
More  patient  than  before. 

Oh!  think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 

We  '11  ever  see  the  land  ? 
'T  was  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a  helping  hand. 

'T  was  cruel,  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 
I  ween,  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 

Would  rather  send  than  come. 

Oh !  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done— 
The  truth  is  founded,  the  secret  won — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea ! 


THE  LADIES' READER.  293 


THE  LAND  OF  OUR  FOREFATHERS-EDWARD  EVERETT. 

WHAT  American  does  not  feel  proud  that  he  is  descended 
from  the  countrymen  of  Bacon,  of  Newton,  and  of  Locke? 
Who  does  not  know,  that  while  every  pulse  of  civil  liberty  in 
the  heart  of  the  British  empire  beat  warm  and  full  in  the  bosom 
of  our  fathers,  the  sobriety,  the  firmness,  and  the  dignity  with 
which  the  cause  of  free  principles  struggled  into  existence  here, 
constantly  found  encouragement  and  countenance  from  the 
sons  of  liberty  there  ?  Who  does  not  remember  that  when  the 
Pilgrims  went  over  the  sea,  the  prayers  of  the  faithful  British 
confessors,  in  all  the  quarters  of  their  dispersion,  went  over 
with  them,  while  their  aching  eyes  were  strained,  till  the  star 
of  hope  should  go  up  in  the  western  skies  ?  And  who  will 
ever  forget  that  in  that  eventful  struggle  which  severed  this 
mighty  empire  from  the  British  crown,  there  was  not  heard, 
throughout  our  continent  in  arms,  a  voice  which  spoke  louder 
for  the  rights  of  America,  than  that  of  Burke  or  of  Chatham, 
within  the  walls  of  the  British  parliament,  and  at  the  foot  of 
the  British  throne  ?  No,  for  myself  I  can  truly  say,  that  after 
my  native  land,  I  feel  a  tenderness  and  a  reverence  for  that  of 
my  fathers.  The  pride  I  take  in  my  own  country  makes  me 
respect  that  from  which  we  are  sprung. 

In  touching  the  soil  of  England,  I  seem  to  return  like  a  de- 
scendant to  the  old  family  seat ;  to  come  back  to  the  abode  of 
an  aged,  the  tomb  of  a  departed  parent.  I  acknowledge  this 
great  consanguinity  of  nations.  The  sound  of  my  native  lan- 
guage, beyond  the  sea,  is  a  music  to  my  ear  beyond  the  richest 
strains  of  Tuscan  softness,  or  Castilian  majesty.  I  am  not  yet 
in  a  land  of  strangers  while  surrounded  by  the  manners,  the 
habits,  the  forms  in  which  I^have  been  brought  up.  I  wander 
delighted  through  a  thousand  scenes,  which  the  historians,  the 
poets,  have  made  familiar  to  us — of  which  the  names  are  inter- 
woven with  our  earliest  associations.  I  tread  with  reverence 
the  spots  where  I  can  retrace  the  footsteps  of  our  suffering 
fathers ;  the  pleasant  land  of  their  birth  has  a  claim  on  my 
heart.  It  seems  to  me  a  classic,  yea,  a  holy  land,  rich  in  the 
memories  of  the  great  and  good;  the  martyrs  of  liberty, 
the  exiled  heralds  of  truth ;  and  richer,  as  the  parent  of  this 
land  of  promise  in  the  west. 

I  am  not,  I  need  not  say  I  am  not,  the  panegyrist  of  Eng- 


294  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

land.  I  am  not  dazzled  by  her  riches,  nor  awed  by  her  power. 
The  sceptre,  the  mitre,  and  the  coronet,  stars,  garters,  and  blue 
ribbons,  seem  to  me  poor  things  for  great  men  to  contend  for. 
Nor  is  my  admiration  awakened  by  her  armies,  mustered  for 
the  battles  of  Europe ;  her  navies,  overshadowing  the  ocean ; 
nor  her  empire,  grasping  the  furthest  East.  It  is  these,  and 
the  price  of  guilt  and  blood  by  which  they  are  maintained, 
which  are  the  cause  why  no  friend  of  liberty  can  salute  her 
with  undivided  affections.  But  it  is  the  refuge  of  free  princi- 
ples, though  often  persecuted ;  the  school  of  religious  liberty, 
the  more  precious  for  the  struggles  to  which  it  has  been 
called  ;  the  tombs  of  those  who  have  reflected  honor  on  all  who 
speak  the  English  tongue ;  it  is  the  birthplace  of  our  fathers, 
the  home  of  the  pilgrims ;  it  is  these  which  I  love  and  vener- 
ate in  England.  I  should  feel  ashamed  of  an  enthusiasm  for 
Italy  and  Greece,  did  I  not  also  feel  it  for  a  land  like  this.  In 
an  American  it  would  seem  to  me  degenerate  and  ungrateful, 
to  hang  with  passion  upon  the  traces  of  Homer  and  Virgil,  and 
follow  without  emotion  the  nearer  and  plainer  footsteps  of 
Shakspeare  and  Milton ;  and  I  should  think  him  cold  in  his 
love  for  his  native  land,  who  felt  no  melting  in  his  heart  for 
that  other  native  land,  which  holds  the  ashes  of  his  forefathers. 


THE   LAST  CRUSADER— BULWER. 

Left  to  the  Saviour's  conquering  foes, 
The  land  that  girds  the  Saviour's  grave ; 

"Where  Godfrey's  crozier-standard  rose, 
He  saw  the  crescent-banner  wave. 

There,  o'er  the  gently-broken  vale, 

The  halo-light  on  Zion  glow'd; 
There  Kedron,  with  a  voice  of  wail, 

By  tombs  of  saints  and  heroes  flow'd ; 

There  still  the  olives  silver  o'er 

The  dimness  of  the  distant  hill; 
There  still  the  flowers  that  Sharon  bore, 

Calm  air  with  many  an  odor  fill. 

Slowly  the  Last  Crusader  eyed 

The  towers,  the  mount,  the  stream,  the  plain, 
And  thought  of  those  whose  blood  had  dyed 

The  earth  with  crimson  streams  in  vain. 


THE   LADIES1  READER.  295 

He  thought  of  that  sublime  array, 

The  hosts,  that  over  land  and  deep, 
The  hermit  marshall'd  on  their  way, 

To  see  those  towers,  and  halt  to  weep ! 

Resign'd  the  loved,  familiar  lands, 

O'er  burning  wastes  the  cross  to  bear, 
And  rescue  from  the  Paynim's  hands 

No  empire  save  a  sepulchre ! 

And  vain  the  hope,  and  vain  the  loss, 

And  vain  the  famine  and  the  strife; 
In  vain  the  faith  that  bore  the  cross, 

The  valor  prodigal  of  life. 

And  vain  was  Richard's  lion-soul, 

And  guileless  Godfrey's  patient  mind — 
Likes  waves  on  shore,  they  reach'd  the  goal, 

To  die,  and  leave  no  trace  behind  1 

"  0  God !"  the  last  Crusader  cried, 

"  And  art  thou  careless  of  thine  own  ? 
For  us  thy  Son  in  Salem  died, 

And  Salem  is  the  scoffer's  throne  I 

"  And  shall  wo  leave,  from  age  to  age, 

To  godless  hands  the  holy  tomb  ? 
Against  thy  saints  the  heathen  rage — 

Launch  forth  thy  lightnings,  and  consume!" 

Swift,  as  he  spoke,  before  his  sight 

A  form  Hash'd,  white-robed,  from  above ; 
All  heaven  was  in  those  looks  of  light, 

But  Heaven,  whose  native  air  is  love. 

••  Alas!"  the  solemn  vision  said, 

11  Thy  God  is  of  the  shield  and  spear — 
To  bless  the  quick  and  raise  the  dead, 

The  Saviour-God  descended  here ! 

"  Ah !  knowst  thou  not  the  very  name 

Of  Salem  bids  thy  carnage  cease — 
A  symbol  in  itself  to  claim 

God's  people  to  a  house  of  peace ! 

"Ask  not  the  Father  to  reward 

The  hearts  that  seek,  through  blood,  the  Son; 
O  warrior  I  never  by  the  sword 

The  Saviour's  Holy  Li-nd  is  won!" 


296  THE    LADIES'  READER. 


BALLAD  PROM:  THE 


Among  green  pleasant  meadows, 

All  in  a  grove  so  mild, 
"Was  set  a  marble  image 

Of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child, 

There  oft,  on  summer  evenings, 
A  lovely  boy  would  rove, 

To  play  beside  the  image 
That  sanctified  the  grove. 

Oft  sat  his  mother  by  him, 
Among  the  shadows  dim, 

And  told  how  the  Lord  Jesus 
Was  once  a  child  like  him. 

"And  now  from  highest  heaven 
He  doth  look  down  each  day, 

And  sees  whate'er  thou  doest, 
And  hears  what  thou  dost  say." 

Thus  spake  his  tender  mother: 
And  on  an  evening  bright, 

When  the  red  round  sun  descended 
'Mid  clouds  of  crimson  light  — 

Again  the  boy  was  playing  • 

And  earnestly  said  he, 
"  0  beautiful  Lord  Jesus, 

Come  down  and  play  with  me/' 

tll  will  find  thee  flowers  the  fairest 
And  weave  for  thee  a  crown  ; 

I  will  get  thee  ripe  red  strawberries, 
If  thou  wilt  but  come  down. 

"  0  holy,  holy  mother, 

Put  him  down  from  off  thy  knee  j 
For  in  these  silent  meadows 

There  are  none  to  play  with  me." 

Thus  spake  the  boy  so  lovely; 

The  while  his  mother  heard  ; 
But  on  his  prayer  she  pondered, 

And  spake  to  him  no  word. 

That  self-same  night  she  dreamed 

A  lovely  dream  of  joy  ; 
She  thought  she  saw  young  Jesus. 

There  playing  with  the  boy. 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER.  297 

"And  for  the  fruits  and  flowers 

"Which  thou  hast  brought  to  me, 
Rich  blessings  shall  be  given, 

A  thousand-fold  to  thee. 

"  For  in  the  fields  of  heaven 

Thou  shalt  roam  with  me  at  will, 
And  of  bright  fruits  celestial 

Shalt  have,  dear  child,  thy  fill." 

Thus  tenderly  and  kindly 

The  fair  Child  Jesus  spoke ; 
And  full  of  careful  musinprs, 

The  anxious  mother  woke. 

And  thus  it  was  accomplished : 

In  a  short  month  and  day, 
That  lovely  boy,  so  gentle, 

Upon  his  death-bed  lay. 

And  thus  he  spoke  in  dying : 

"  0  mother  dear,  I  see 
The  beautiful  Child  Jesus 

A-comiug  down  to  me ; — 

"And  in  his  hand  he  beareth 

Bright  flowers  as  white  as  snow, 
And  red  and  juicy  strawberries; 

Dear  mother,  let  me  go." 

He  died — but  that  fond  mother 

Her  sorrow  did  restrain 
For  she  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 

And  she  asked  him  not  again. 


THE  MOURNERS.-ELIZA  COOK. 

King  Death  sped  forth  in  his  dreaded  power 
To  make  the  most  of  his  tyrant  hour: 
And  the  first  he  took  was  a  white-robed  girl, 
With  the  orange  bloom  twined  in  each  glossy  curl, 
Tier  fond  betrothc-d  Imng  over  the  bier, 
Bathing  her  shroud  with  gushing  tear : 
He  madly  raved,  he  shriek'd  his  pain, 
With  frantic  speech  and  burning  bmiu. 
"There's  no  joy,"icried  he,  "now  my  dearest  is  gone, 
Take,  take  me,  Death  ;  for  I  cannot  live  on!" 
13* 


298  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

The  sire  was  robb'd  of  his  eldest  born, 

And  he  bitterly  bled  while  the  branch  was  torn : 

Other  scions  were  round,  as  good  and  fair, 

But  none  seem'd  so  bright  as  the  breathless  heir. 

"My  hopes  are  crush'd,"  was  the  father's  cry; 

"  Since  my  darling  is  lost,  I  too,  would  die." 

The  valued  friend  was  snatch  d  away, 

Bound  to  another  from  childhood's  day ; 

And  the  one  that  was  left  exclaim'd  in  despair, 

"  Oh!  he  sleeps  in  the  tomb — let  me  follow  him  there  I' 

A  mother  was  taken,  whose  constant  love 

Had  nestled  her  child  like  a  fair  young  dove ; 

And  the  heart  of  that  child  to  the  mother  had  grown, 

Like  the  ivy  to  oak,  or  the  moss  to  the  stone : 

Nor  loud  nor  wild  was  the  burst  of  woe, 

But  the  tide  of  anguish  ran  strong  below ; 

And  the  reft  one  turn'd  from  all  that  was  light, 

From  the  flowers  of  day  and  the  stars  of  night ; 

Breathing  where  none  might  hear  or  see — 

"  Where  thou  art,  my  mother,  thy  child  would  be." 

Death  smiled  as  he  heard  each  earnest  word : 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  he,  be  this  work  deferr'd; 

I'll  see  thee  again  in  a  fleeting  year, 

And,  if  grief  and  devotion  live  on  sincere, 

I  promise  then  thou  shalt  share  the  rest 

Of  the  being  now  pluck'd  from  thy  doating  breast ; 

Then,  if  thou  cravest  the  coffin  and  pall 

As  thou  dost  this  moment,  my  spear  shall  fall;" 

And  death  fled  till  Time  on  his  rapid  wing 

Gave  the  hour  that  brought  back  the  skeleton  king. 

But  the  lover  was  ardently  wooing  again, 

Kneeling  in  serfdom,  and  proud  of  his  chain ; 

He  had  found  an  idol  to  adore,  < 

Rarer  than  that  he  had  worshipp'd  before : 

His  step  was  gay,  his  laugh  was  loud, 

As  he  led  the  way  for  the  bridal  crowd  j 

And  his  eyes  still  kept  their  joyous  ray, 

Though  he  went  by  the  grave  where  his  first  love  lay, 

"Ha!  ha!"  shouted  Death,  "'tis  passing  clear 

That  I  am  a  guest  not  wanted  here !" 

The  father  was  seen  in  his  children's  games, 

Kissing  their  flush'd  brows  and  blessing  their  names  I 

And  his  eye  grew  bright  as  he  mark'd  the  charms 

Of  the  boy  at  his  knee  and  the  girl  in  his  arms: 

His  voice  rung  out  in  the  merry  noise, 

He  was  first  in  all  their  hopes  and  joys; 

He  ruled  their  sports  in  the  setting  sun, 

Nor  gave  a  thought  to  the  missing  one. 

"Are  ye  ready,"  cried  Death,  as  he  raised  his  dart. 

" Nay.  nay,"  shriek'd  the  father;  "in  mercy  depart !" 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  299 

The  friend  again  was  quaffing  the  howl, 
"\Vurmly  pledging  his  faith  and  soul; 

>in  cherished  with  glowing  pride 
:IL:<T  form  that  sat  hy  his  side; 
lli.s  liaml  tlio  hand  of  that  stranger  press'd; 
He  praised  his  song,  he  echoed  his  jest; 
And  the  mirth  and  wit  of  that  new-found  mate 
Made  a  blank  of  the  name  so  prized  of  late. 
"  See,  see,"  cried  Death,  as  he  hurried  past, 
"  How  bravely  the  bonds  of  friendship  lastl" 

But  the  orphan  child !     Oh.  where  was  she  ? 

"\Vith  clasping  hands  and  bended  knee, 

All  alone  on  the  churchyard's  sod, 

Mingling  the  names  of  mother  and  God. 

Her  dark  and  sunken  eye  was  hid, 

Fast  weeping  beneath  the  swollen  lid ; 

Her  sigh  was  heavy,  her  forehead  was  chill, 

Betraying  the  wound  was  unheard  still; 

And  her  sniother'd  prayer  was  yet  heard  to  crave 

A  speedy  homo  in  the  self-same  grave. 

Hers  was  the  love  all  holy  and  strong; 

Hers  was  the  sorrow  fervent  and  long; 

Hers  was  the  spirit  whose  light  was  shed 

As  an  incense-tire  above  the  dead. 

Death  linger' d  there,  and  paused  awhile ; 

But  she  beckon 'd  him  on  with  a  welcoming  smile. 

"  There  's  a  solace,"  cried  she,  "  for  all  others  to  find, 

But  a  mother  leaves  no  equal  behind." 

And  the  kindest  blow  Death  ever  gave 

Laid  the  mourning  child  in  the  parent's  grave. 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  SUN.    WILLIAM  WARE. 

VAST  preparations  had  been  making  for  the  dedication  for 
many  days  or  even  months  preceding,  and  the  day  arose  upon 
a  city  full  of  expectation  of  the  shows,  ceremonies,  and  games 
that  were  to  reward  their  long  and  patient  waiting.  For  the 
season  of  the  year  the  day  was  hot,  unnaturally  so ;  and  the 
sky  tilled  with  those  massive  clouds,  piled  like  mountains  of 
snow  one  upon  another,  which,  while  they  both  please  the  eye 
l>v  their  forms  and  veil  the  fierce  splendors  of  the  sun  as  they 
now  and  then  sail  across  his  face,  at  the  same  time  portend 
wind  and  storm.  All  Rome  was  early  astir.  It  was  ushered  in 
by  the  criers  traversing  the  streets  and  proclaiming  the  rites 


300  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

and  spectacles  of  the  day,  what  they  were  and  where  to  be 
witnessed,  followed  by  troops  of  boys  imitating  in  their  gro- 
tesque \vay  the  pompous  declarations  of  the  men  of  authority, 
not  unfrequently  drawing  down  upon  their  heads  the  curses 
and  the  batons  of  the  insulted  dignitaries. 

At  the  appointed  hour  we  were  at  the  palace  of  Aurelian  on 
the  Palatine,  where  a  procession,  pompous  as  art  and  rank  and 
numbers  could  make  it,  was  formed,  to  move  thence  by  a  wind- 
ing and  distant  route  to  the  temple  near  the  foot  of  the  Quiri- 
nal.  Julia  repaired  with  Portia  to  a  place  of  observation  near 
the  temple — I  to  the  palace  to  join  the  company  of  the  empe- 
ror. Of  the  gorgeous  magnificence  of  the  procession  I  shall 
tell  you  nothing.  It  was  in  extent  and  variety  of  pomp  and 
costliness  of  decoration,  a  copy  of  that  of  the  late  triumph, 
and  went  even  beyond  the  captivating  splendor  of  the  example. 
Roman  music — which  is  not  that  of  Palmyra — lent  such  charms 
as  it  could  to  our  passage  through  the  streets  to  the  temple, 
from  a  thousand  performers. 

As  we  drew  near  to  the  lofty  fabric,  I  thought  that  no  scene 
of  such  various  beauty  and  magnificence  had  ever  met  my  eye. 
The  temple  itself  is  a  work  of  unrivalled  art.  In  size  it  sur- 
passes any  other  building  of  the  same  kind  in  Rome,  and  for 
the  excellence  in  workmanship  and  purity  of  design,  although 
it  may  fall  below  the  standard  of  Hadrian's  age,  yet  for  a  cer- 
tain air  of  grandeur  and  luxuriance  of  invention  in  its  details, 
and  lavish  profusion  of  embellishment  in  gold  and  silver,  no 
temple  or  other  edifice  of  any  preceding  age  ever  perhaps  re- 
sembled it.  Its  order  is  the  Corinthian,  of  the  Roman  form, 
and  the  entire  building  is  surrounded  by  its  slender  columns, 
each  composed  of  a  single  piece  of  marble.  Upon  the  front  is 
wrought  Apollo  surrounded  by  the  Hours.  The  western  ex- 
tremity is  approached  by  a  flight  of  steps  of  the  same  breadth 
as  the  temple  itself.  At  the  eastern  there  extends  beyond  the 
walls  to  a  distance  equal  to  the  length  of  the  building  a  marble 
platform,  upon  which  stands  the  altar  of  sacrifice,  and  which  is 
ascended  by  various  flights  of  steps,  some  little  more  than  a 
gently  rising  plain,  up  which  the  beasts  are  led  that  are  des- 
tined to  the  altar. 

When  this  vast  extent  of  wall  and  column  of  the  most  daz- 
zling brightness  came  into  view,  everywhere  covered,  together 
with  the  surrounding  temples,  palaces  and  theatres,  with  a  dense 
mass  of  human  beings,  of  all  climes  and  regions,  dressed  out  in 
their  richest  attire — music  from  innumerable  instruments  filling 


THK   LADIES'   RKA.DER.      m  301 

the  heavens  with  harmony — shouts  of  the  proud  and  excited 
populace  every  few  moments  and  from  different  points,  as  Au- 
relian  advanced,  shaking  the  air  with  its  thrilling  din — the 
neighing  of  horses,  the  frequent  blasts  of  the  trumpet — the 
whole  made  more  solemnly  imposing  by  the  vast  masses  of 
cloud  which  swept  over  the  sky,  now  suddenly  unveiling  and 
again  eclipsing  the  sun,  the  great  god  of  this  idolatry,  and  from 
which  few  could  withdraw  their  gaze ;  when  at  once  all  this 
broke  upon  my  eye  and  ear,  I  was  like  a  child  who  before  had 
never  seen  aught  but  his  own  village  and  his  own  rural  temple, 
in  the  effect  wrought  upon  me,  and  the  passiveness  with  which 
I  abandoned  myself  to  the  sway  of  the  senses.  Not  one  there 
:iore  ravished  by  the  outward  circumstance  and  show.  I 
thought  of  Rome's  thousand  years,  of  her  power,  her  great- 
ness ami  universal  empire,  and  fora  moment  my  step  was  not 
less  proud  than  that  of  Aurelian.  But  after  that  moment — 
when  the  senses  had  had  their  fill,  when  the  eye  had  seen  the 
glory,  and  the  ear  had  fed  upon  the  harmony  and  the  praise, 
then  I  thought  and  felt  very  differently;  sorrow  and  compas- 
sion for  these  gay  multitudes  were  at  my  heart ;  prophetic 
forebodings  of  disaster,  danger,  and  ruin  to  those  to  whose  sacred 
cause  I  had  linked  myself,  made  my  tongue  to  falter  in  its 
speech,  and  my  limbs  to  tremble.  I  thought  that  the  supersti- 
tion that  was  upheld  by  the  wealth  and  the  power,  whose  man- 
ifestations were  before  me,  had  its  roots  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  earth — far  too  deep  down  for  a  few  like  myself  ever  to 
reach  them.  I  was  like  one  whose  last  hope  of  life  and  escape 
is  suddenly  struck  away. 

I  was  roused  from  these  meditations  by  our  arrival  at  the 
eastern  front  of  the  temple.  Between  the  two  central  columns, 
on  a  throne  of  gold  and  ivory,  sat  the  emperor  of  the  world, 
surrounded  by  the  senate,  the  colleges  of  augurs  and  haruspi- 
ces,  and  by  the  priests  of  the  various  temples  of  the  capital,  all 
in  their  peculiar  <-o>tume.  Then  Fronto,  the  priest  of  the 
temple,  when  the  crier  had  proclaimed  that  the  hour  of  wor- 
ship and  saeiilier  had  come,  and  had  commanded  silence  to  be 
ol»ervL-<l — standing  at  the  altar,  glittering  in  his  white  and 
golden  robes  like  a  messenger  of  light — bared  his  head,  and 
lifting  his  face  up  toward  the  sun,  offered  in  clear  and  sounding 
tones  the  prayers  of  dedication.  As  he  came  toward  the  close 
of  his  prayer,  he,  MS  is  so  usual,  with  loud  and  almost  frantic 
cries  and  importunate  repetition,  called  upon  the  god  to  hear 
him,  arid  then  with  nppmpiate  mines  and  praises  invoked  the 


302  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Father  of  gods  and  men  to  be  present  and  hear.  Just  as  he 
had  thus  solemnly  invoked  Jupiter  by  name,  and  was  about  to 
call  upon  the  other  gods  in  the  same  manner,  the  clouds,  which 
had  been  deepening  and  darkening,  suddenly  obscured  the  sun ; 
a  distant  peal  of  thunder  rolled  along  the  heavens,  and  at  the 
same  moment  from  the  dark  recesses  of  the  temple  a  voice  of 
preternatural  power  came  forth,  proclaiming  so  that  the  whole 
multitude  heard  the  words — "God  fs  but  one;  the  king  eter- 
nal, immortal,  invisible."  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  hor- 
ror that  seized  those  multitudes.  Many  cried  out  with  fear, 
and  each  seemed  to  shrink  behind  the  other.  Paleness  sat 
upon  every  face.  The  priest  paused  as  if  struck  by  a  power 
from  above.  Even  the  brazen  Fronto  was  appalled.  Aurelian 
leaped  from  his  seat,  and  by  his  countenance,  white  and  awe- 
struck, showed  that  to  him  it  came  as  a  voice  from  the  gods. 
He  spoke  not,  but  stood  gazing  at  the  dark  entrance  into  the 
temple  from  which  the  sound  had  come.  Fronto  hastily 
approached  him,  and  whispering  but  one  word  as  it  were  into 
his  ear,  the  emperor  started ;  the  spell  that  bound  him  was 
dissolved  ;  and  recovering  himself — making  indeed  as  though  a 
very  different  feeling  had  possessed  him — cried  out  in  fierce 
tones  to  his  guards  : 

"  Search  the  temple ;  some  miscreant  hid  away  among  the 
columns  profanes  thus  the  worship  and  the  place.  Seize  him 
and  drag  him  forth  to  instant  death." 

The  guards  of  the  emperor  and  the  servants  of  the  temple 
rushed  in  at  that  bidding  and  searched  in  every  part  the  inte- 
rior of  the  building.  They  soon  emerged,  saying  that  the 
search  was  fruitless.  The  temple  in  all  its  aisles  and  apart- 
ments was  empty. 

The  ceremonies,  quiet  being  again  restored,  then  went  on. 
Twelve  bulls,  of  purest  white  and  of  perfect  forms,  their  horns 
bound  about  with  fillets,  were  now  led  by  the  servants  of  the 
temple  up  the  marble  steps  to  the  front  of  the  altar,  where 
stood  the  cultrarii  and  haruspices,  ready  to  slay  them  and  ex- 
amine their  entrails.  The  omens  as  gathered  by  the  eyes  of 
all  from  the  fierce  stragglings  and  bellowings  of  the  animals  as 
they  were  led  toward  the  place  of  sacrifice — some  even  escap- 
ing from  the  hands  of  those  who  had  the  management  of  them 
— and  from  the  violent  and  convulsive  throes  of  others  as  the 
blow  fell  upon  their  heads,  or  the  knife  severed  their  throats, 
were  of  the  darkest  character,  and  brought  a  deep  gloom  upon 
the  brow  of  the  emperor.  The  report  of  the  haruspices  upon 


TIIH  LADIES1   READER.  303 

examination  of  the  entrails  was  little  calculated  to  remove  that 

gloom.      It  was  for    the  most  part  unfavorable.      Especially 

appalling  was  the  sight  of  a  heart  so  lean  and  withered  that  it 

sremcd  possible  it  should  ever  have  formed  a  part  of  a 

living  animal.     But  more  harrowing  than  all  was  the  voice  of 

Fronto,  who  prying  with  the  haruspices  into  the  smoking  car- 

•  »f  one   of  the  slaughtered  bulls,  suddenly  cried  out  with 

horror  that  "  no  heart  was  to  be  found." 

Tin-  emperor,  hardly  to  be  restrained  by  those  near  him  from 
some  expression  of  anger,  ordered  a  more  diligent  search  to  be 
made. 

"  It  is  not  in  nature  that  such  a  thing  should  be,"  he  said. 
"  Mm  are,  in  truth,  sometimes  without  hearts;  but  brutes,  as  I 
think,  never." 

The  report  was  however  confidently  confirmed.  Fronto 
himself  approaehe.l,  and  said  that  his  eye  had  from  the  first 
been  upon  tin-  lu-ast,  and  the  exact  truth  had  been  stated. 

Tin-  carcasses,  such  (tarts  as  were  for  the  flames,  were  then 
laid  iijujn  tlu-  va>t  altar,  and  the  flames  of  the  sacrifice  as- 
eendeo. 

The  he.-ivens  were  again  obscured  by  thick  clouds,  which 
accumulating  into  dark  masses,  began  now  nearer  and  nearer  to 
shoot  forth  lightning  and  roll  their  thunders.  The  priest  com- 
menced the  last  office,  prayer  to  the  god  to  whom  the  new 
temple  had  been  thus  solemnly  consecrated.  He  again  bowed 
his  head,  and  again  lifted  up  his  voice.  But  no  sooner  had  he 
invoked  the  god  of  the  temple  and  besought  his  ear,  than  again 
from  its  dark  interior  the  same  awful  sounds  issued  forth,  this 
time  saying  "  Thy  gods,  O  Rome,  are  false  and  lying  gods. 
God  is  but  one." 

Aurelian,  pale  as  it  seemed  to  me  with  superstitious  fear, 
strove  to  shake  it  off,  giving  it  artfully  and  with  violence  the 
appearance  of  offended  dignity.  His  voice  was  a  shriek  rather 
than  a  human  utterance^  as  he  cried  out : 

"  This  is  but  a  Christian  device ;  search  the  temple  till  the 
accursed  Nazarene  be  found  and  hew  him  piecemeal — "  more 
he  would  have  said,  but  at  the  instant  a  bolt  of  lightning  shot 
from  the  heavens,  and  lighting  upon  a  large  sycamore  which 
shaded  a  part  of  the  temple  court,  clove  it  in  twain.  The 
swollen  cloud  at  the  same  moment  burst,  and  a  deluge  of  rain 
poured  upon  the  city,  the  temple,  the  gazing  multitudes,  and 
the  just  kindled  altars.  The  sacred  fires  went  out  in  hissing 
and  darkness;  a  tempest  of  wind  whirled  the  limbs  of  the 


304  THE    LADIES'   RKADKR. 

slaughtered  victims  into  the  air,  and  abroad  over  the  neighbor- 
ing streets.  All  was  confusion,  uproar,  terror  and  dismay.  The 
crowds  sought  safety  in  the  houses  of  the  nearest  inhabitants, 
and  the  porches  of  the  palaces.  Aurelian  and  the  senators, 
and  those  nearest  him,  fled  to  the  interior  of  the  temple.  The 
heavens  blazed  with  the  quick  flashing  of  the  lightning,  and  the 
temple  itself  seemed  to  rock  beneath  the  voice  of  the  thunder. 
I  never  knew  in  Eome  so  terrific  a  tempest.  The  stoutest 
trembled,  for  life  hung  by  a  thread.  Great  numbers,  it  has 
now  been  found,  fell  a  prey  to  the  fiery  bolts.  The  capitol 
itself  was  struck,  and  the  brass  statue  of  Vespasian  in  the  forum 
thrown  down  and  partly  melted.  The  Tiber  in  a  few  hours 
overran  its  banks,  and  laid  much  of  the  city  on  its  borders 
under  water. 

But  ere  long  the  storm  was  over.  The  retreating  clouds, 
but  still  sullenly  muttering  in  the  distance  as  they  rolled  away, 
were  gaily  lighted  up  by  the  sun,  which  again  shone  forth  in 
his  splendor.  The  scattered  limbs  of  the  victims  were  collect- 
ed and  again  laid  upon  the  altar.  Dry  wood  being  brought, 
the  flames  quickly  shot  upward  and  consumed  to  the  last  joint 
and  bone  the  sacred  offerings.  Fronto  once  more  stood  before 
the  altar,  and  now,  uninterrupted,  performed  the  last  office  of 
the  ceremony.  Then  around  the  tables  spread  within  the  tem- 
ple to  the  honor  of  the  gods,  feasting  upon  the  luxuries  con- 
tributed by  every  quarter  of  the  earth,  and  filling  high  with 
wine,  the  adverse  omens  of  the  day  were  by  most  forgotten. 
But  not  by  Aurelian.  No  smile  was  seen  to  light  up  his  dark 
countenance.  The  jests  of  Varus  and  the  wisdom  of  Porphy- 
rius  alike  failed  to  reach  him.  Wrapped  up  in  his  own  thoughts 
he  brooded  gloomily  over  what  had  happened,  and  strove  to 
read  the  interpretation  of  portents  so  unusual  and  alarming. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN.— TENNYSON. 

I. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year ; 
>0f  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

ii. 

There's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine ; 
There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline ; 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  305 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice,  in  all  the  land,  they  say, 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o1  the  May. 


I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break ; 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'»  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

IV. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 
But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  liazel-tree  ? 


H«-  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday — 
But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 


the  May. 


He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 
For  Tm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

VL 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be ; 

They  say  his  lieart  is  breaking,  mother — but  what  is  that  to  me  ? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

A  nd  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

VII. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

Aad  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


The  honeysuckle  rouiid  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, . 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


The  night  winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

x. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 
20 


306  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

XI. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year ; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 


If  you  're  waking  call  me  early;  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

ii. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

ni. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers :  we  had  a  merry  day ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May; 
And  we  danced  about  the  May-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 


There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills ;  the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high  : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 


The  building  rook  ;ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea. 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 


Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 


When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night : 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 


Till-!    LADIES'    READER.  397 


VIII. 


You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid ; 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 


IX. 


I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now ; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my  i-heek  and  brow ; 
Xay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

x. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place; 
Though  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face ; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 


XI. 


Good-night,  good  night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  for  evermore 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green : 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 


xn. 


She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor ; 
Let  her  take  'em ;  they  are  hers ;  I  shall  never  garden  more  ; 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 


Good  night,  sweet  mother ;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you  're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 


I  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb; 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year  I 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 


0  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
Ami  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 

Ami  s\veet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 


308  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 


0  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair ! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 
0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

v. 

He  show'd  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there 's  One  will  let  me  in 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  him  that  died  for  rne. 


I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  tho  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

vn. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

VIII. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here  ; 
"With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resign' d, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. . 


I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  was  said 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

x. 

But  you  were  sleeping ;  and  I  said,  "  It 's  not  for  them ;  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window  bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  tho  stars. 

XI. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  309 


And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day, 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away, 


And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There's  many  a  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might  have  been  his  wife : 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

Mil. 

0  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know ; 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

xiv. 

0  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 
And  what  is  life  that  we  should  moan  ?  why  make  we  such  ado  ? 


For  ever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  SKELETON  IN 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  now  claimed  by  the 
Danes,  as  a  work  of  their  ancestors. 

"Speak!  speak!  thou fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest 
Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
"Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?" 

Tin -i),  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December; 

And,  liko  tin-  \v;il"i-'s  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 
From  tin1  heart's  chamber. 


310  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

"I  was  a  Viking  old! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  I 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  1 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 
Tamed  the  ger-falcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimm'd  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Track'd  I  the  grizzly  bear, 
"While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  we  re- wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 
Fill'd  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  out  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 


THE  LAD1KS'  READER. 

4i  I  woo'd  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosen'd  vest 
Flutter'd  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleam'd  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  askM  his  daughter's  hand, 
did  the  minstrel  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

*;  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaff 'd 
Loud  then  the  champion  laugh'd 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
s<»  tho  loud  laugh  of  scorn. 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

llh'W  the  foam  lightly. 

'•  She  was  a  Prince's  child. 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blush'd  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 

•i ild  not  tho  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

•'  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  tho  maid  with  me  — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

AmoHg  the  Norsemen! — 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
S;iw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launch'd  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Y«-t  \\-c  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  fail'd  us : 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
<  lame  round  tho  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  ho  hail'd  ua. 


312  THE  LADIES'  READER 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veer'd  the  flapping  sail, 
Death !  was  the  helmsman's  haiL 

Death  without  quarter! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hull  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water. 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

"With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  sea- ward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  I 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sun-light  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

0,  death  was  grateful  I 

"  Thus,  seam'd  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 
My  soul  ascended  I 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!" 
— Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  313 


VOICES  OF  GREEXWOOD.-J.  W.  S.  Hows. 

GREENWOOD  has  its  voices — eloquent  ones,  intelligible  to 
our  common  humanity  for  they  speak  the  universal  language 
"  that  makes  mankind  akin."  Their  teachings  too  are  beauti- 
ful and  impressive.  How  suggestive  of  pure  taste  are  the 
tongues  that  speak  in  her  enibowering  trees,  her  winding  glades, 
her  sunny  slopes,  her  mimic  lakes,  her  sinuously  arranged  and 
picturesque  walks.  These  arc  all  books  exquisitely  illustrated, 
where  the  finishing  touches  have  been  delicately  laid  in  by  the 
Great  Artist  of  the  Universe !  And  then  what  sermons  ever 
preached  by  stones  can  equal  the  expressive  and  solemn  truths 
conveyed  by  the  memorials  reared  by  affection  and  respect,  to 
snatch  from  forgetfulness  the  remembrance  of  those  who  were 
once  the  objects  of  reverence  or  of  love  ?  Yes,  Greenwood  has 
its  voices !  At  all  times  and  in  all  seasons  every  step  within 
its  hallowed  precincts  is  vocal  with  the  sounds  of  those  eloquent 
and  instructive  monitors.  The  revivifying  breath  of  spring  is 
freighted  with  their  utterings ;  the  soft  south  winds  of  summer 
are  laden  with  their  genial  teachings ;  the  hollow  murmurings 
of  the  autumnal  breeze  sigh  forth  their  solemn  warnings ;  and 
the  winter's  blast  echoes  with  symbolical  expression  the  truths 
these  voices  are  made  to  utter.  From  "  morn  till  dewy  eve,"  in 
the  broad  glare  of  the  meridian  sunlight,  and  under  the  mellow 
radiance  of  the  moon,  may  be  heard  their  whisperings,  by  all 
whose  hearts  are  attuned  to  the  reception  of  genial  influences 
and  holy  imaginations. 

Are  these  voices  as  palpable  to  feeling  as  to  sound  ?  Can  we 
arrest  them  in  their  airy  flights ;  and,  giving  to  them  the  tang- 
ible form  of  type,  can  we  transfer  them  to  our  firesides,  or  carry 
them  with  us  to  the  bustling  mart,  and  the  sequestered  haunt,  or 
make  them  the  companions  of  our  wayfaring  excursions?  The 
experiment  is  worth  the  trial,  albeit  we  may  fail  fully  to  trans- 
late tln.'ir  meaning,  and  may  not  succeed  in  rendering  their  elo- 
quent and  iinj»iv->ivc  lessons  with  equal  force  and  expression  a« 
\vlicn  they  are  ln-anl  in  their  own  appropriate  temple. 

Yet  to  tin-  sinu'le-lK-artc'd  and  the  sincere,  who  go  forth  to 

\voo.l  "to  list  to  nature's  teachings"  with  simplicity  of 

purpose  and  obedience  of  spirit,  even  our  imperfect  jottings 

may  be  expanded  into  finished  volumes;  and  for  the  light- 

h<-:irti-«l  and  the  unreflectivc  we  may  perchance  recall  many  a 

14 


814  T11K   LADIES'  READER. 

transient  thought  and  fleeting  impression  that  would  otherwise 
be  forgotten. 

Let  us  put  ourselves  then  in  communication  with  these  voices, 
and  endeavor  to  interpret  their  silent  but  sage  like  counsellings. 
Even  afar  off  we  may  hear  them,  for,  like  the  father  of  the  re- 
turning prodigal,  they  come  to  meet  us.  You  may  hear  the 
gentle  whisperings,  and  see  their  influences,  even  in  the  crowded 
conveyances  which  transport  the  visitants  to  Greenwood.  They 
arc  in  communion  with  that  pale  young  mother,  who  is  seeking 
to  renew  the  torn  up  spring  of  her  love  at  the  grave  of  her  first 
born ;  they  are  saddening  the  brow  of  the  father  at  her  side, 
and  are  drawing  him,  for  the  moment,  from  the  cares  and  toils 
of  incessant  labor  for  the  things  of  earth  ;  they  are  opening 
anew  the  fountains  of  grief  in  the  widowed  and  the  fatherless ; 
they  are  sharpening  the  memories  to  which  affection,  friendship 
and  reverence  cling,  while  journeying  to  the  shrines  of  their  re- 
spective pilgrimages. 

Even  the  mere  pleasure-seekers,  us  they  come  within  the  in- 
fluence of  these  "  warning  voices,"  are  less  thoughtless ;  and 
levity  is  subdued  under  the  power  of  their  secret  ministrations. 
How  solemn  and  yet  how  beautiful  are  the  lessons  breathed 
into  our  mental  cars,  even  on  the  threshold  of  this  hallowed 
spot !  We  arc  treading  the  confines  of  that  "  bourne  from 
which  no  traveler  returns,"  to  which  we  must  all  be  conveyed. 
How  fitting  a  receptacle  this  for  the  soul-untenanted  clay ! — 
secure  as  it  is  from  intrusion  and  desecration — a  set  apart 
and  sacred  spot — guarded  by  the  majesty  of  the  law,  and 
hallowed  by  the  feelings  and  .associations  which  in  all  countries 
have  thrown  around  the  sepulchre  the  aegis  of  reverence  and 
regard. 

The  voice  01"  inspiration,  first  sounded  in  the  patriarchal  ages 
and  reverberated  through  the  periods  of  Mosaic  and  Christian  dis- 
pensations, has  hallowed  the  abodes  of  the  dead,  forbidding  their 
desecration  for  profane  or  mundane  purposes.  It  is  a  principle, 
too,  apparently  instinctive  in  man  to  honor  the  resting  places 
of  the  departed.  The  untutored  Indian  venerates  the  graves  of 
his  ancestors;  the  rudest  savage  pays  homage  to  the  spot 
where  lie  the  relics  of  his  race.  The  mystic  idolatry  of  Egypt 
expended  its  world-teaching  science  in  giving  an  attempted  im- 
1  mortality  to  the  perishing  remains  of  humanity,  and  their  yet 
existing  stupendous  relics  of  architecture  speak  trumpet-tongued 
to  us  moderns,  how  they  venerated  the  memory  of  the  departed. 
Greece  and  Rome  exhausted  the  resources  of  art  to  testify  their 


TilK   L.UUKS    READER.  315 

regard  for  the  honored  dead.  The  disciples  of  Mahomet  hold 
their  sepulchres  in  reverence  ;  the  worshippers  of  Bramah,  the 
devotees  of  Confucius  and  Fo  ;  the  adorers  of  the  Grand  Lama  ; 
the  believers  in  Zoroaster,  and  the  Persian  fire-worshippers; 
tin-  children  of  \Voden,  and  the  ignorant  adorer  of  the  "Fetish 
God"  —  all  have  testified  an  honored  regard  for  the  burial  places 
of  the  dead. 

'     It  is  this  sacred  impulse  of  nature,  sanctioned  by  the  ap- 
proval of  inspiration,  that  makes  these  modern  ornamented 
teries  such  interesting  expository  features  of  the  spirit  of 
our  age.     The  rapidity  of  modern  improvement  cannot  touch 
least,  a 


them.  TJii'ii,  at  least,  are  preserved  from  the  experimental  pro- 
cess of  utilitarianism.  New  York  rushing  on  to  its  destined 
giirantic  altitude,  and  its  torrent-like  progress,  may  transform 
temples  raised  to  the  worship  of  the  living  God  into  seats  of  the 
money-changers  and  marts  of  traffic;  and  time-honored  grave- 
yards may  be  trampled  by  her  busy  crowds,  yet  Greenwood  is 
then-,  clothed  in  its  sacred  prerogative  of  exclusive  privileges, 
secure  from  innovation  and  preserved  from  future  desecration. 
And  there,  too,  may  be  traced  the  progress  of  modern  refine- 
ment, fitly  assuming  the  task  of  modeling  public  taste,  by  fos- 
tering a  love  for  the  beautiful,  as  exhibited  in  the  combination 
it  uru  improved  by  Art. 

In  a  country  like  this,  where  everv  man  may  aspire  to  be- 
come the  owner  of  a  "  homestead,"  and  where  wealthy  proprie- 
tors possess  domains  equal  in  extent  to  the  largest  baronial 
s  «.f  Knnipp,  the  cultivation  of  a  taste  for  ornamental  gar- 
dening Beemfl  almost  to  become  a  duty,  for  who  will  deny  the 
hiunaiiixinir  tendencies  of  such  pursuits?  Greenwood  is  actu- 
ally a  "Capability  Brown,"  quite  as  eloquent  as  the  great 
modern  expounder  of  the  advantages  of  landscape  gardening. 
I  low  many  an  embowering  residence,  and  how  many  a  pic- 
turesquely ornamented  garden,  that  adds  beauty  to  our  country, 
may  owe  their  origin  to  Greenwood!  And  what  genial  home 
influences  may  not  have  been  first  awakened  by  a  contempla- 
tion of  the  beauties  which  are  so  admirably  blended  in  these 
ornamented  resting-places  of  the  loved  and  honored  dead! 

If  the  "voices  ot  (irernwood,"  arc  thus  suggestive  of  feelings 

verence  to  the  dead  ;  if  they  foster  those  humanizing  in- 

fluences, which  are  generated  by  pure  and  refined  tastes,  how 

solemnly  impressive  are  other  lessons  they  convey  !     Not  alone 

do  they  say,  in  the  language  of  the  poet: 


316  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

"Hark!  how  the  sacred  calm  that  breathes  around, 

Bids  every  fierce  tumultuous  passion  cease ; 
In  still  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground 
A  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace." 

But  they  speak  to  us  of  the  busy  world,  its  conflicts  and  its 
toils,  teaching  us  not  only  how  to  die,  but  how  to  live ;  they 
arm  us  for  the  contests  of  this  world's  strifes,  and  as  we  linger 
over  the  evidences  of  frail  mortality  around  us,  these  "  voices" 
point  endless  morals  and  adorn  most  eloquent  tales. 


HYMX  TO  THE  BEAUTIFUL.-B.  H.  STODDABD. 

My  heart  is  full  of  tenderness  and  tears, 

And  tears  are  in  mine  eyes,  I  know  not  why ; 
With  all  my  grief,  content  to  live  for  years, 

Or  even  this  hour  to  die. 
My  youth  is  gone,  but  that  I  heed  not  now ; 

My  love  is  dead,  or  worse  than  dead  can  be ; 
My  friends  drop  off  like  blossoms  from  a  bough, 

But  nothing  troubles  me, 
Only  the  golden  flush  of  sunset  lies 
Within  my  heart  like  fire,  like  dew  within  my  eyes! 

Spirit  of  Beauty !  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 
I  see  thy  skirts  afar,  and  feel  thy  power  ; 
It  is  thjr  presence  fills  this  charmed  hour, 

And  fills  my  charmed  heart ; 
Nor  mine  alone,  but  myriads  feel  thee  now, 
That  know  not  what  they  feel,  nor  why  they  bow ; 

Thou  canst  not  be  forgot, 
For  all  men  worship  thee,  and  know  it  not ; 
Nor  men  alone,  but  babes  with  wondrous  eyes, 
New-comers  on  the  earth,  and  strangers  from  the  skies! 

We  hold  the  keys  of  Heaven  within  our  hands, 
The  gift  and  heirloom  of  a  former  state, 
And  lie  in  infancy  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Transfigured  in  the  light  that  streams  along  the  lands ! 
Around  our  pillows  golden  ladders  rise, 
And  up  and  down  the  skies, 
With  winged  sandals  shod, 
The  angels  come,  and  go,  the  messengers  of  God ! 
Nor  do  they,  fading  from  us,  e'er  depart — 
It  is  the  childish  heart; 
We  walk  as  heretofore, 

Adown  their  shining  ranks,  but  see  them  nevermore! 
Not  Heaven  is  gone,  but  we  are  blind  with  tears, 
0  roping  our  way  along  the  downward  slope  of  years ! 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  317 

From  earliest  infancy  my  heart  was  thine ; 
"With  childish  feet  I  trod  thy  temple  aisles; 
Not  knowing  tears,  I  worshipped  thee  with  smiles, 
Or  if  I  ever  wept,  it  was  with  joy  divine  1 
By  day,  and  night,  on  land,  and  sea,  and  air — 

I  saw  thee  everywhere ! 
A  voice  of  greeting  from  the  wind  was  sent ; 

The  mists  enfolded  me  with  soft  white  arms ; 
The  birds  did  sing  to  lap  me  in  content, 

The  rivers  wove  their  charms, 
And  every  little  daisy  in  the  grass 
Did  look  up  in  my  face,  and  gmile  to  see  me  pass ! 

Not  long  can  Nature  satisfy  the  mind, 

Xor  outward  fancies  feed  its  inner  flame ; 

"VVe  feel  a  growing  want  we  cannot  name, 
And  long  for  something  sweet,  but  undefined; 
The  wants  of  Beauty  other  wants  create, 
Which  overflow  on  others  soon  or  late; 
For  all  that  worship  thee  must  ease  the  heart, 

By  Love,  or  Song,  or  Art: 
Divinest  Melancholy  walks  with  thee, 

Her  thin  white  cheek  forever  leaned  on  thine; 
Ami  Music  leads  her  sister  Poesy, 

In  exultation  shouting  songs  divine ! 
But  on  thy  breast  Love  lies — immortal  child! —  . 
Begot  of  thine  own  longings,  deep  and  wild: 
The  more  we  worship  him,  the  more  we  grow 
Into  thy  perfect  image  here  below; 
For  here  below,  as  in  the  spheres  above, 
All  Love  is  Beauty,  and  all  Beauty,  Love  1 

Not  from  the  things  around  us  do  we  draw 

Thy  light  within:  within  the  light  is  born; 

The  growing  rays  of  some  forgotten  morn, 
And  added  canons  of  eternal  law. 
The  painter's  picture,  the  rapt  poet's  song. 

The  sculptor's  statue,  never  saw  the  Day  , 

Not  shaped  and  moulded  after  aught  of  -lay, 
"Whose  crowning  work  still  does  its  spirit  v  'ong; 
Hue  after  hue  divinest  pictures  grow, 

Line  after  line  immortal  songs  arise, 
And  limb  by  limb,  out-starting  stern  and  slow, 

The  statue  wakes  with  wonder  in  its  eyes! 

And  in  the  master's  mind 
Sound  after  sound  is  born,  and  dies  like  wind, 
That  echoes  through  a  range  of  ocean  caves, 
And  straight  is  gone  to  weave  its  spell  upon  the  waves ! 

•        The  n^stery  is  thine, 
For  thine  the  more  mysterious  human  heart, 
The  temple  of  all  wisdom,  Beauty's  shrine, 
The  oracle  of  Art ! 


318  TIIK   LADIES'  READER. 

Earth  is  thine  outer  court,  And  Life  a  breath ; 
Why  should  we  fear  to  die,  and  leave  the  Earth  I 
Not  thine  alone  the  lesser  key  of  Birth, — 

But  all  the  keys  of  Death ; 
And  all  the  worlds,  with  all  that  they  contain 

Of  Life,  and  Death,  and  Time,  are  thine  alone; 
The  universe  is  girdled  with  a  chain, 

And  hung  below  the  throne 
Where  Thou  dost  sit,  the  universe  to  bless, — 
Thou  sovereign  smile  of  God,  eternal  loveliness  ! 


ABBOTTSFORD  AND  ilELROSE  ABBEY.-BAYAKD  TAYLOR. 

CROSSING  the  Gala  we  ascended  a  hill  on  the  road  to  Selkirk, 
and  behold  !  the  Tweed  ran  below,  and  opposite,  in  the  midst 
of  embowering  trees  planted  by  the  hand  of  Scott,  rose  the 
grey  halls  of  Abbottsford.  We  went  down  a  lane  to  the  banks 
of  the  swift  stream,  but  finding  no  ferry,  as  it  looked  very  shal- 
low, we  thought  we  might  save  a  long  walk  by  wading  across. 
The  current  was  ice-cold  and  very  swift,  and  as  the  bed  was 
covered  with  loose  stones,  it  required  the  greatest  care  to  stand 
upright.  Looking  at  the  bottom,  through  the  rapid  water, 
made  my  Head  so  giddy,  I  was  forced  to  stop  and  shut  my 
eyes ;  my  friend,  who  had  firmer  nerves,  went  plunging  on  to  a 
deeper  and  swifter  part,  where  the  strength  of  the  current 
made  him  stagger  very  unpleasantly. 

We  found  a  foot-path  on  the  other  side,  which  led  through  a 
young  forest  to  Abbottsford.  Rude  pieces  of  sculpture,  taken 
from  Melrose  Abbey,  were  scattered  around  the  gate,  some 
half  buried  in  the  earth  and  overgrown  with  weeds.  The 
niches  in  the  walls  were  filled  with  pieces  of  sculpture,  and  an 
antique  marble  greyhound  reposed  in  the  middle  of  the  court 
yard.  We  rang  the  bell  in  an  outer  vestibule,  ornamented 
with  several  pairs  of  antlers,  when  a  lady  appeared,  who,  from 
her  appearance,  I  have  no  doubt  was  Mrs.  Ormand,  the  "  Duen- 
na of  Abbottsford,"  so  humorously  described  by  D'Arlincourt, 
in  his  "  Three  Kingdoms."  She  ushered  us  into  the  entrance 
hall,  which  has  a  magnificent  ceiling  of .  carved  oak  and  is 
lighted  by  lofty  stained  windows.  An  effigy  of  a  knight  in 
armor  stood  at  either  end,  one  holding  a  huge  two-handed 
sword  found  on  Bosworth  Field  ;  the  walls  were  covered  with 
helmets  and  breastplates  of  the  olden  time. 

Among  the  curiosities  in  the  Armory  are  Napoleon's  pistols, 
the  blunderbuss  of  Hofer,  Rob  Roy's  purse  and  gun,  and  the 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  319 

offering  box  of  Queen  Mary.  Through  the  folding  doors  be- 
tween the  dining-room,  drawing-room  and  library,  is  a  fine 
vista,  terminated  by  a  niche,  in  which  stands  Chantrey's  bust 
of  Scott.  The  ceilings  are  of  carved  Scottish  oak  and  the 
doors  of  American  cedar.  Adjoining  the  library  is  his  study, 
the  walls  of  which  are  covered  with  books  ;  the  doors  and  win- 
dows are  double,  to  render  it  quiet  and  undisturbed.  His 
books  and  inkstand  are  on  the  table  and  his  writing-chair 
stands  before  it,  as  if  he  had  left  them  but  a  moment  before. 
In  a  little  closet  adjoining,  where  he  kept  his  private  manu- 
scripts, are  the  clothes  he  last  wore,  his  cane  and  belt,  to  which 
a  hammer  and  small  axe  are  attached,  and  his  sword.  A  nar- 
row staircase  led  from  the  study  to  his  sleeping  room  above,  by 
which  he  could  come  down  at  night  and  work  while  his  family 
slept.  The  silence  about  the  place  is  solemn  and  breathless,  as 
if  it  waited  to  be  broken  by  his  returning  footstep.  I  felt  an 
awe  in  treading  these  lonely  halls,  like  that  which  impressed 
me  before  tin-  u'rave  of  Washington — a  feeling  that  hallowed 
the  sp«»t.  as  it'  there  yet  lingered  a  low  vibration  of  the  lyre, 
though  the  minstrel  had  departed  forever! 

riui-kinu:  a  wild  rose  that  grew  near  the  walls,  I  left  Abbotts- 
ford,  embosomed  among  the  trees,  and  turned  into  a  green  lane 
that  led  down  to  Melrose. 

MelroM>  is  the  finest  remaining  specimen  of  Gothic  architec- 
ture in  Scotland.  Some  of  the  sculptured  flowers  in  the  clois- 
ter arches  are  remarkably  beautiful  and  delicate,  and  the  two  win- 
dows — the  south  and  east  oriels — are  of  a  lightness  and  grace 
^•cution  really  surprising.  We  saw  the  tomb  of  Michael 
Scott,  of  King  Alexander  II.,  and  that  of  the  Douglas,  marked 
with  a  sword.  The  heart  of  Bruce  is  supposed  to  have  been 
buried  beneath  the  high  altar.  The'  -chancel  is  all  open  to  the 
-ky,  and  rooks  build  their  nests  among  the  wild  ivy  that  climba 
over  the  crumbling  arches.  One  of  these  came  tamely  down 
and  perched  upon  the  hand  of  our  fair  guide.  By  a  winding 
-tair  in  one  of  the  towers  we  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  arch 
;md  looked  down  on  the  grassy  floor.  I  sat  on  thfc  broken  pil- 
lar, which  Scott  always  used  for  a  seat  when  he  visited  the 
Abbey,  and  rvad  the  disinterring  of  the  magic  book,  in  the 
••  Lay  of  the  \.;i<\  .Minstrel."  I  never  comprehended  its  full 
beauty  till  then;  the  memory  of  Mdroso  will  give  it  a  thrilling- 
interest,  in  the  future.  When  wo  left,  I  was  willing  to  say, 
with  the  minstrel  : 

••  WAS  never  scone  so  sad  and  fair!" 


320  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


ALICE  LEE  —Miss  LANDOX 

.  Through  the  dim  and  lonely  forest 

Comes  a  low  sweet  sound, 
Like  the  whispering  of  angels 

To  the  greenwood  round, 
Bearing  through  the  hours  of  midnight, 

On  their  viewless  wings, 
Music  in  its  measure  telling 
High  and  holy  things. 

Through  the  forest  lone  and  dim 
Swelleth  soft  the  twilight  hymn 
Of  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

On  the  grass  the  dews  unbroken 

In  their  silver  lie, 
And  the  stars  are  out  in  thousands 

On  the  deep  blue  sky ; 
Bright  as  when  the  old  Chaldeans 

Held  them  as  the  shrine 
Where  was  kept  the  varying  fortune 
Of  our  human  line. 

Would  that  o'er  their  mystic  scroll 
Better  hours  may  have  to  roll 
For  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee ! 

Time  was,  coming  forth  together, 

She  and  Spring  might  seem 
Like  the  beautiful  creations 

Of  a  morning  dream; 
Each  went  through  the  quiet  greenwood 

Wandering  alone, 

With  the  green  leaves  and  wild  flowers 
O'er  their  pathway  strown. 
Of  the  seasons  in  the  year 
Spring  seemed  fittest  to  be  near 
The  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

Round  her  head  the  locks  are  golden, 

So  the  sun  in  June 
Pours  his  glory  o'er  the  summer 

At  his  crystal  noon ; 
From  that  shining  hair,  when  parted, 

Came  the  pure  high  brow, 
With  the  carving  of  a  statue, 

With  the  mountain's  snow. 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER.  321 

Blue  her  eyes  as  you  blue  heaven. 
Nature  every  charm  had  given 
To  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

But  it  was  the  inward  beauty 

Breathing  from  her  face, 
That  gave  every  look  and  motion 

Its  diviner  grace ; 
Thought  was  on  the  high  white  forehead, 

In  the  deep  blue  eyes, 
And  it  was  the  quick  warm  feeling 
Bade  the  blushes  rise, 

AVhich  could  such  sweet  light  impart 
Writing  on  the  cheek,  the  heart, 
Of  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

Lovely  was  the  highrborn  maiden, 

Happy  were  the  hours 
Gathering  in  the  oak-tree's  shelter 

Mosses  and  wild  flowers; 
"\Vhc-n  the  deer  from  each  green  coppico 

Fled,  a  startled  band, 
Save  when  some  familiar  favorite 
Fed  from  her  small  hand. 

Danger  now,  and  fear,  and  wrath, 
Are  around  the  woodland  path 
Of  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

Nobly  doth  she  meet  the  trial, 

She  who  hath  but  kno\vn 
Till  the  present  time  of  trouble 

Life's  smooth  path  alone. 
Though  her  smile  be  somewhat  sadder, 

And  her  eye  subdued, 
Such  are  lovelier  as  the  token 
Of  a  higher  mood. 

Like  an  angel's  is  the  face, 
In  its  meek  and  pensive  grace, 
Of  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

Not  an  hour  of  calm  and  quiet 

Hath  his  old  age  found; 
There  are  foes  and  strangers  haunting 

}\\<,  iincr.-'tral  --round- 
Of  his  ancient  halls  and  woodlands 

Is  the  old  man  reft, 
But  they  have  not  quite  bereaved  him, 

For  his  child  is  left. 
21 


322  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Others  evil  fortunes  move, 
Deeper,  dearer,  is  the  love 
Of  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 

'T  is  her  voice  that  now  is  raising 

"Words  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Heaven  will  consecrate  the  worship 

'  Of  this  hour  of  care. 
Earthly  care  and  earthly  sorrow 

Only  purify ; 

Such  a  heart  as  that  uplifting 
Its  best  hopes  on  high. 

Heaven  will  bless  the  faithful  maid, 
Heaven  will  bless  the  duty  paid 
By  the  old  knight's  lovely  daughter, 
The  gentle  Alice  Lee. 


THE  CARELESS  WORD— MRS.  NORTON. 

A  word  is  ringing  through  my  brain : 
It  was  not  meant  to  give  me'  pain ; 
It  had  no  tone  to  bid  it  stay, 
"When  other  things  had  passed  away; 
It  had  no  meaning  more  than  all 
"Which  in  an  idle  hour  fall : 
It  was  -when  first  the  sound  I  heard 
A  lightly-utter'd,  careless  word. 

That  word — oh !  it  doth  haunt  me  now, 
In  scenes  of  joy,  in  scenes  of  wo; 
By  night,  by  day,  in  sun  or  shade, 
"With  the  half  smile  that  gently  play'd 
Reproachfully,  and  gave  the  sound " 
Eternal  power  through  life  to  wound. 
There  is  no  voice  I  ever  heard 
So  deeply  fix'd  as  that  one  word. 

When  in  the  laughing  crowd  some  tone, 
Like  those  whose  joyous  sound  is  gone, 
Strikes  on  my  ear,  I  shrink — for  then 
The  careless  word  comes  back  again. 
"When  all  alone  I  sit  and  gaze 
Upon  the  cheerful  homo-fire  blaze, 
Lo !  freshly  as  when  first  'twas  heard, 
Returns  that  lightly-utter'd  word. 

When  dreams  bring  back  the  days  of  old, 
With  all  that  wishes  could  not  hold ; 


THE  LA D IKS'  UKA1>KH.  323 

And  from  my  feverish  couch  I  start 
To  press  a  shadow  to  my  heart — 
Amid  its  beating  echoes,  clear 
That  little  word  I  seem  to  hear ;  . 
In  vain  I  say,  while  it  is  heard, 
"Why  weep — 'twas  but  a  foolish  word. 

It  comes — and  with  it  come  the  tears, 
The  hopes,  the  joys  of  former  years ; 
Forgotten  smiles,  forgotten  looks, 
Thick  as  dead  leaves  on  autumn  brooks, 
And  all  as  joyless,  though  they  were 
The  brightest  things  life's  spring  could  share. 
Oh !  would  to  God  I  ne'er  had  heard 
That  lightly-utter'd,  careless  word ! 

It  was  the  first,  the  only  one 
Of  these  which  lips  forever  gone 
Breathed  in  their  love — which  had  for  mo 
Rebuke  of  harshness  at  my  glee ; 
And  if  those  lips  were  heard  to  say, 
"  Beloved,  let  it  pass  away," 
Ah  !  then,  perchance— but  I  have  heard 
The  last  dear  tone — the  careless  word! 

Oh  !  ye  who,  meeting,  sigh  to  part, 
Whose  words  are  treasures  to  some  heart, 
Peal  gently,  ere  the  dark  days  come, 
When  earth  hath  but  for  one  a  home ; 
Lest,  musing  o'er  the  past,  like  me, 
TL.-y  fi-el  their  hearts  wrung  bitterly, 
And,  heeding  not  what  else  they  heard, 
Dwell  weeping  on  a  careless  word. 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD 

WE  stand  now  on  the  river's  brink.  It  may  well  be  called 
the  Concord — the  river  of  peace  and  quietness — for  it  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  unexcitable  and  sluggish  stream  that  ever  loi- 
tered, imperceptibly,  toward  its  eternity,  the  sea.  Positively,  I 
had  lived  thm-  \\rrks  Ix-side  it,  before  it  grew  quite  clear  to 
my  perception  whi.-li  way  the  current  flowed.  It  never  has  a 
vivacious  aspect,  c.v.'-pt  when  ;i  northwestern  breeze  is  vexing 
its  surface,  on  a  sunshiny  dav.  From  the  incurable  indolence 
of  its  nature,  the  r-tn-.-un  is  happily  incapable  of  becoming  the 
blave  of  human  ingenuity,  as  is  the  fate  of  so  many  a  wild,  free 


324  THE  LADIES'  EEADER. 

mountain  torrent.  While  all  things  else  are  compelled  to  sub- 
serve some  useful  purpose,  it  idles  its  sluggish  life  away  in  lazy 
liberty,  without  turning  a  solitary  spindle,  or  affording  even 
water  power  enough  to  grind  the  corn  that  grows  upon  its 
banks.  The  torpor  of  its  movement  allows  it  nowhere  a  bright, 
pebbly  shore,  nor  so  much  as  a  narrow  strip  of  glistening  sand, 
in  any  part  of  its  course.  It  slumbers  between  broad  prairies, 
kissing  the  long  meadow  grass,  and  bathes  the  overhanging 
boughs  of  elder  bushes  and  willows,  or  the  roots  of  elm  and  ash 
trees,  and  clumps  of  maples.  Flags  and  rushes  grow  along  its 
plashy  shore ;  the  yellow  water-lily  spreads  its  broad,  flat  leaves 
on  the  margin ;  and  the  fragrant,  white  pond  lily  abounds,  gen- 
erally selecting  a  position  just  so  far  from  the  river's  brink  that 
it  cannot  be  grasped,  save  at  the  hazard  of  plunging  in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  perfect  flower  derives  its  loveliness 
and  perfume,  springing,  as  it  does,  from  the  black  mud  over 
which  the  river  sleeps,  and  where  lurk  the  slimy  eel,  and  speck- 
led frog,  and  the  mud  turtle,  whom  continual  washing  cannot 
cleanse.  It  is  the  very  same  black  mud  out  of  which  the  yel- 
low lily  sucks  its  rank  life  and  noisome  odor.  Thus  we  see,  too, 
in  the  world,  that  some  persons  assimilate  only  what  is  ugly  and 
evil  from  the  same  moral  circumstances  which  supply  good  and 
beautified  results — the  fragrance  of  celestial  flowers — to  the  daily 
life  of  others. 

The  Old  Manse  ! — we  had  almost  forgotten  it,  but  will  return 
thither  through  the  orchard.  This  was  set  out  by  the  last  cler- 
gyman, in  the  decline  of  his  life,  when  the  neighbors  laughed 
at  the  hoary-headed  man  for  planting  trees,  from  which  he 
could  have  no  prospect  of  gathering  fruit.  Even  had  that  been 
the  case,  there  was  only  so  much  the  better  motive  for  planting 
them,  in  the  pure  and  unselfish  hope  of  benefiting  his  succes- 
sors— an  end  so  seldom  achieved  by  more  ambitious  efforts. 
But  the  old  minister,  before  reaching  his  patriarchal  age  of 
ninety,  ate  the  apples  from  this  orchard  during  many  years,  and 
added  silver  and  gold  to  his  annual  stipend,  by  disposing  of  the 
superfluity.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  him,  walking  among  the 
trees  in  the  quiet  afternoons  of  early  autumn,  and  picking  up 
here  and  there  a  windfall ;  while  he  observes  how  heavily  the 
branches  are  weighed  down,  and  computes  the  number  of 
empty  flour  barrels  that  will  be  filled  by  their  burden.  He 
loved  each  tree,  doubtless,  as  if  it  had  been  his  own  child.  An 
orchard  has  a  relation  to  mankind,  and  readily  connects  itself 
vv;th  mutters  of  the  heart.  The  trees  possess  a  domestic  char- 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  325 

acter ;  they  have  lost  the  wild  nature  of  their  forest  kindred, 
and  have  grown  humanized  by  receiving  the  care  of  man,  as  well 
as  by  contributing  to  his  wants. 

I  have  met  with  no  other  such  pleasant  trouble  in  the  world, 
as  that  of  finding  myself,  with  only  the  two  or  three  mouths 
which  it  was  my  privilege  to  feed,  the  sole  inheritor  of  the  old 
clergyman's  wealth  of  fruits.  Throughout  the  summer  there 
wviv  rlu'rru's  and  currants;  and  then  came  autumn,  with  his 
immense  burden  of  apples,  dropping  them  continually  from  his 
overladen  shoulders,  as  he  trudged  along.  In  the  stillest  after- 
noon, if  I  listened,  the  thump  of  a  great  apple  was  audible,  fall- 
ing without  a  breath  of  wind,  from  the  mere  necessity  of  per- 
fect ripeness.  And,  besides,  there  were  pear  trees,  that  flung 
down  bushels  upon  bushels  of  heavy  pears ;  and  peach  trees, 
which  in  a  good  year,  tormented  me  with  peaches,  neither  to 
be  eaten  nor  kept,  nor,  without  labor  and  perplexity,  to  be 
given  away.  The  idea  of  an  infinite  generosity  and  inexhausti- 
ble bounty,  on  the  part  of  our  mother  nature,  was  well  worth 
obtaining  through  such  cares  as  these.  That  feeling  can  be  en- 
joyed in  perfection  only  by  the  natives  of  summer  islands, 
where  the  bread-fruit,  the  cocoa,  the  palm,  and  the  orange  grow 
spontaneously,  and  hold  forth  the  ever-ready  meal ;  but,  like- 
wise, almost  as  well,  by  a  man  long  habituated  to  city  life,  who 
plunges  into  such  a  solitude  as  that  of  the  Old  Manse,  where 
In-  plucks  the  fruit  of  trees  that  he  did  not  plant ;  and  which, 
therefore,  to  my  heterodox  taste,  bear  the  closer  resemblance  to 
that  grew  in  Eden. 

Not  that  it  can  be  disputed  that  the  light  toil  requisite  to 
cultivate  a  moderately-sized  garden,  imparts  such  zest  to  kitchen 
vegetables  as  is  never  found  in  those  of  the  market  gardener. 
Childless  men,  if  they  would  know  something  of  the  bliss  of 
paternity,  should  plant  a  seed— be  it  squash,  bean,  Indian  corn, 
or  perhaps  a  mere  flower,  or  worthless  weed — should  plant  it 
with  their  own  hands,  and  nurse  it  from  infancy  to  maturity, 
altogether  by  their  own  care.  If  there  be  not  too  many  of 
them,  each  individual  plant  becomes  an  object  of  separate  in- 
terest. My  garden,  that  skirted  the  avenue  of  the  Manse,  was 
of  precisely  the  right  extent.  An  hour  or  two  of  morning  labor 
was  all  that  it  required.  But  I  used  to  visit  and  revisit  it  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  and  stand  in  deep  contemplation  over  my 
vegetable  progeny,  with  a  love  that  nobody  could  share  or  con- 
ceive of,  who  had  never  taken  part  in  the  process  of  creation. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  bewitching  sights  in  the  world  to  ob- 

f^   o 
UNIVP53QIT 


326  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

serve  a  hill  of  beans  thrusting  aside  the  soil,  or  a  row  of  early 
peas  just  peeping  forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a  line  of  delicate 
green.  Later  in  the  season,  the  humming  birds  were  attracted 
by  the  blossoms  of  a  peculiar  variety  of  bean  ;  and  they  were  a 
joy  to  me,  those  little  spiritual  visitants,  for  deigning  to  sip 
any  food  out  of  rny  nectar  cups.  Multitudes  of  bees  used  to 
bury  themselves  in  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  summer  squashes. 
This,  too,  was  a  deep  satisfaction ;  although,  when  they  had  laden 
themselves  with  sweets,  they  flew  away  to  some  unknown  hive, 
which  would  give  back  nothing  in  requital  of  what  my  garden 
had  contributed.  But  I  was  glad  thus  to  fling  a  benefaction 
upon  the  passing  breeze,  with  the  certainty  that  somebody 
must  profit  by  it,  and  that  there  would  be  a  little  more  honey 
in  the  world,  to  allay  the  sourness  and  bitterness  which  man- 
kind is  always  complaining  of.  Yes,  indeed  ;  my  life  was  the 
sweeter  for  that  honey. 


ITALY— BYRON. 

My  soul  wanders ;  I  demand  it  back 

To  meditate  amongst  decay  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins ;  there  to  track, 
Fallen  states,  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest,  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  arid  must  ever  be. 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic,  and  the  free, 
The  beautiful,  the  brave — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea — 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  homo 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree ; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes's  fertility ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm,  which  cannot  be  defaced. 

The  moon  is  up ;  and  yet  it  is  not  night ; 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains  ;  heaven  is  free 
From  clouds ;  but  of  all  the  colors  seem  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity ; 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  30? 

"While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest, 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest ! 

j;le  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven ;  but  still, 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill, 
As  Day  and  Xight  contending  were,  until 
-ire  reclaimed  her  order;  gently  flows 
The  deep-eyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  newborn  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed  within  it  glows. 

Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse ; 
And  now  they  change ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away — 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till — 'tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

Italia  1  0  Italia!  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower,  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  ploughed  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Would  that  thou  wert  in  this  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely,  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress ; 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appall ;  or,  less  desired, 
Be  homely,  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms;  then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  poured 
Down  the  deep  Alps ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nationed  spoilers  from  the  Po, 
Quaff  blood  and  water ;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

Yet,  Italy !  through  every  other  land 
Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side ; 
Mother  of  arts!  as  once  of  arms;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
Parent  of  our  religion!*  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven ! 
Kurope,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

*  Alluding  to  the  mission  of  Augustin  to  the  Anglo-Saxons. 


328  THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  QUEEN  MART  FR01T  LOCHLEVEN  CASTLE.-SiK  W.  SCOTT. 

"  Look  from  that  window,  Roland,"  said  the  Queen  ;  "  see 
you  amongst  the  several  lights  which  begin  to  kindle,  and  to 
glimmer  palely  through  the  gray  of  the  evening  from  the  vil- 
lage of  Kinross — seest  thou,  I  say,  one  solitary  spark  apart 
from  the  others,  and  nearer  it  seems  to  the  verge  of  the  water  ? 
It  is  no  brighter  at  this  distance  than  the  torch  of  the  poor 
glow-worm,  and  yet,  my  good  youth,  that  light  is  more  dear  to 
Mary  Steuart  than  every  star  that  twinkles  in  the  blue  vault 
of  heaven.  By  that  signal,  I  know  that  more  than  one  true 
heart  are  plotting  my  deliverance  ;  and  without  that  conscious- 
ness, and  the  hope  of  freedom  it  gives  me,  I  had  long  since 
stooped  to  my  fate,  and  died  of  a  broken  heart.  Plan  after 
plan  has  been  formed  and  abandoned,  but  still  the  light  glim- 
mers ;  and  while  it  glimmers,  my  hope  lives.  O !  how  many 
evenings  have  I  sat  musing  in  despair  over  our  ruined  schemes,  and 
scarce  hoping  that  I  should  again  see  that  blessed  signal ;  when 
it  has  suddenly  kindled,  and  like  the  lights  of  Saint  Elmo  in  a 
tempest,  brought  hope  and  consolation,  where  there  was  only 
dejection  and  despair !" 

"  If  I  mistake  not,"  answered  Roland,  "  the  candle  shines 
from  the  house  of  Blinkhoolie,  the  mail-gardener." 

"  Thou  hast  a  good  eye,"  said  the  Queen ;  "  it  is  there  where 
my  trusty  lieges — God  and  the  saints  pour  blessings  on  them  ! 
— hold  consultation  for  my  deliverance.  The  voice  of  a  wretch- 
ed captive  would  die  on  these  blue  waters,  long  ere  it  could 
mingle  in  their  council ;  and  yet  I  can  hold  communication — I 
will  confide  the  whole  to  thee — I  arn  about  tc  ask  those  faith- 
ful friends  if  the  moment  for  the  great  attempt  is  nigh.  Place 
the  lamp  in  the  window,  Fleming." 

She  obeyed,  and  immediately  withdrew  it.  No  sooner  had 
she  done  so,  than  the  light  in  the  cottage  of  the  gardener  dis- 
appeared. 

"  Now  count,"  said  Queen  Mary,  "  for  my  heart  beats  so  thick 
that  I  cannot  count  myself." 

The  Lady  Fleming  began  deliberately  to  count  one,  two, 
three,  and  when  she  had  arrived  at  ten,  the  light  on  the  shore 
again  showed  its  pale  twinkle. 

"Now  our  Lady  be  praised  !"  said  the  Queen;  "  it  was  but 
two  nights  since,  that  the  absence  of  the  light  remained  whilo 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  309 

I  could  tell  thirty.  The  hour  of  deliverance  approaches. 
May  God  bless  those  who  labor  in  it  with  such  truth  to  me ! — 
alas  !  with  such  hazard  to  themselves — and  bless  you  too.  my 
children  1" 

"  And  now  for  the  signal  from  the  shore  !"  exclaimed  Cather- 
ine; "  my  bosom  tells  n ir  A\e  shall  see  this  night  two  lights 
instead  of  one  gleam  from  that  garden  of  Eden.  And  then, 
Roland,  do  you  play  your  part  manfully,  and  we  will  dance  otl 
the  green  sward  like  midnight  fairies." 

Catherine's  conjecture  misgave  not,  nor  deceived  her.  In  the 
(•veiling  two  beams  twinkled  from  the  cottage,  instead  of  one; 
and  tin-  page  heard,  with  beating  heart,  that  the  new  retainer 
•nlered  t«>  Mand  sentinel  on  the  outside  of  the  castle. 
"When  he  intimated  this  news  to  the  Queen,  she  held  her  hand 
out  to  him — he  knelt,  and  when  he  raised  it  to  his  lips  in  all 
dutiful  homage,  he  found  it  was  damp  and  cold  as  marble. 
"  For  God's  sake,  madam,  droop  not  now — sink  not  now  !" 

"  Call  upon  Our  Lady,  my  Liege,"  said  the  Lady  Fleming — 
"  call  upon  your  tutelar  saint." 

"Call  the  spirits  of  the  hundred  kings  you  are  descended 
from  !"  exclaimed  the  page  ;  "  in  this  hour  of  need,  the  resolu- 
tion of  a  monarch  were  worth  the  aid  of  a  hundred  saints." 

"  0  !  Roland  Grame,"  said  Mary,  in  a  tone  of  deep  despon- 
dency, "be  true  to  me — main  have  been  false  to  me.  Alas!  I 
have  not  always  been  true  to  myself!  My  mind  misgives  me 
that  I  shall  die  in  bondage,  and  that  this  bold  attempt  will 
cost  all  our  lives.  It  was  foretold  me  by  a  soothsayer  in 
France,  that  I  should  die  in  prison,  and  by  a  violent  death,  and 
here  comes  the  hour.  O,  would  to  God  it  found  me  prepared !" 

"  Madam,"  said  Catherine  Seyton,  "  remember  you  are  a 
Queen.  Better  we  all  died  in  bravely  attempting  to  gain  our 
freedom,  than  remain  here  to  be  poisoned,  as  men  rid  them 
of  the  noxious  vermin  that  haunt  old  houses." 

"  You  are  right,  Catherine,"  said  the  Queen ;  "  and  Mary 
will  bear  her  like  herself.  But,  alas  !  your  young  and  buoyant 
spirit  can  ill  spell  the  causes  which  have  broken  mine.  Forgive 
me,  my  children,  and  farewell  for  a  while — I  will  prepare  both 
mind  and  body  for  this  awful  venture." 

They  separated,  till  again  called  together  by  the  tolling  of 
the  curfew.  The  Queen  appeared  grave,  but  firm  and  resolved ; 
the  Lady  Fleming,  with  the  art  of  an  experienced  courtier, 
knew  perfectly  how  to  disguise,  her  inward  tremors;  Cather- 
ine's eye  was  fired,  as  if  with  the  boldness  of  the  project,  and 


330  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

the  half  smile  which  dwelt  upon  her  beautiful  mouth  seemed 
to  contemn  all  the  risk  and  all  the  consequences  of  discovery ; 
Roland,  who  felt  how  much  success  depended  on  his  own 
address  and  boldness,  summoned  together  his  whole  presence 
of  mind,  and  if  lie  found  his  spirits  flag  for  a  moment,  cast  his 
eye  upon  Catherine,  whom  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  look 
so  beautiful.  "  I  may  be  foiled,"  he  thought,  "  but  with  this 
reward  in  prospect,  they  must  bring  the  devil  to  aid  them  ere 
they  cross  me."  Thus  resolved,  he  stood  like  a  greyhound  in 
the  slips,  with  hand,  heart,  and  eye  intent  upon  making  and 
seizing  opportunity  for  the  execution  of  their  project. 

The  keys  had,  with  the  wonted  ceremonial,  been  presented 
to  the  Lady  Lochleven.  She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  case- 
ment, which,  like  that  of  the  Queen's  apartment,  commanded  a 
view  of  Kinross,  with  the  church,  which  stands  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  town,  and  nearer  to  the  lake,  then  connected 
with  the  town  by  straggling  cottages.  With  her  back  to  the 
casement,  then,  and  her  face  to  the  table,  on  which  the  keys 
lay  for  an  instant  while  she  tasted  the  various  dishes  which 
were  placed  there,  stood  the  Lady  of  Lochleven,  more  provok- 
ingly  intent  than  usual— so  at  least  it  seemed  to  her  prisoners — 
upon  the  huge  and  heavy  bunch  of  iron,  the  implements  of 
their  restraint.  Just  when,  having  finished  her  ceremony  as 
taster  of  the  Queen's  table,  she  was  about  to  take  up  the  keys, 
the  page,  who  stood  beside  her,  and  had  handed  her  the  dishes 
in  succession,  looked  sidewisc  to  the  churchyard  and  exclaimed 
he  saw  corpse-candles  in  the  vault.  The  Lady  of  Lochleven 
was  not  without  a  touch,  though  a  slight  one,  of  the  supersti- 
tions of  the  time ;  the  fate  of  her  sons  made  her  alive  to 
omens,  and  a  corpse-light,  as  it  was  called,  in  the  family  burial- 
place,  boded  death.  She  turned  her  head  towards  the  case- 
ment— saw  a  distant  glimmering — forgot  her  charge  for  one 
second,  and  in  that  second  were  lost  the  whole  fruits  of  her 
former  vigilance.  The  page  held  the  forged  keys  under  his 
cloak,  and  with  great  dexterity  exchanged  them  for  the  real 
ones.  His  utmost  address  could  not  prevent  a  slight  clash  as 
he  took  up  the  latter  bunch.  "  Who  touches  the  keys  ?"  said 
the  Lady ;  and  while  the  page  answered  that  the  sleeve  of  his 
cloak  had  touched  them,  she  looked  around,  possessed  herself 
of  the  bunch  which  now  occupied  the  place  of  the  genuine 
keys,  and  again  turned  to  gaze  at  the  supposed  corpse-caudles. 
"  I  wish  your  Grace  and  your  company  a  good  evening. 
Randal  attend  us."  And  Randal,  who  waited  in  the  ante- 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  331 

chamber  after  having  surrendered  his  bunch  of  keys,  gave  his 
escort  to  his  mistress  as  usual,  while,  leaving  the  Queen's  apart- 
ments, she  retired  to  her  own. 

"  To-morrow  .'"  said  the  page,  rubbing  his  hands  with  glee  as 
j>eated  the  Lady's  last  words,  "fools  look  to  to-morrow, 
and  wise  folk  use  to-night.  May  I  pray  you,  my  gracious 
.to  retire  for  one  half  hour,  until  all  the  castle  "is  com- 
posed to  rest  ?  I  must  go  and  rub  with  oil  these  blessed  im- 
plements of  our  freedom.  Courage  and  constancy,  and  all  will 
u-"  well,  provided  our  friends  on  the  shore  fail  not  to  send  the 
1  "ii  -poke  of." 

"  Fear  them  not,"  said  Catherine,  "  they  are  true  as  steel — if 
our  dear  mistress  do  but  maintain  her  noble  and  royal  courage." 

"  \Ye  have  but  brief  time,"  said  Queen  Mary;  "one  of  the 
two  lights  in  the  cottage  is  extinguished — that  shows  the  boat 
is  put  off." 

'•  They  will  row  very  slow,"  said  the  page,  "or  kent  where 
depth  permits,  to  avoid  noise.  To  our  several  tasks — I  will 
communicate  with  the  good  Father." 

At  the  dead  hour  of  midnight,   when  all   was   silent  in  the 

•  •astir,  the  page  put  the  key  into  the  lock  of  the  wicket   which 
opened  into  the  garden,   and  which  was  at  the  bottom  of  a 
Main-ase  that  descended  from  the  Queen's  apartment.     "Now 
turn  smooth  and  softly,  thou  good  bolt,"   said  he,  '"if  ever  oil 

aed  ru>r !"'  and  his  precautions  had  been  so  effectual,  that 
the  bolt  revolved  with  little  or  no  sound  of  resistance.  He 
ventured  not  to  cross  the  threshold,  but  exchanging  a  word 
with  the  disguised  Abbot,  asked  if  the  boat  were  ready  ? 

"  This  half  hour,"  said  the  sentinel.  "  She  lies  beneath  the 
wall,  too  close  under  the  islet  to  be  seen  by  the  warder,  but  I 
t'.-ar  she  will  hardly  escape  his  notice  in  putting  off  again." 

••The  darkness,"  said  the  page,  "and  our  profound  silence, 
may  take  her  off  unobserved,  as  she  came  in.  Hildebrand  has 
the  watch  on  the  tower — a  heavy-headed  knave,  who  holds  a 

•  •an  of  ale  to  be  the  best  head-piece  upon  a  night-watch.     He 
sleeps  for  a  wager." 

"  Then  bring  the  Queen,"  said  the  Abbot,  "  and  I  will  carry 
Henry  Seyton  to  assist  them  to  the  boat." 

On  tiptoe,  with  noiseless  step  and  suppressed  breath,  tremb- 
ling at  every  rustle  of  their  own  apparel,  one  after  another  the 
fair  prisoners  glided  down  the  winding  stair,  under  the  guidance 
of  Roland  Gramc,  and  were  received  at  the  wicket-gate  by 
Henry  Seyton,  and  the  churchman.  The  former  seemed  in- 


332  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

stantly  to  take  upon  himself  the  whole  direction  of  the  enter- 
prise. "My  Lord  Abbot,"  he  said,  "give  my  sister  your  arm 
— I  will  conduct  the  Queen — and  that  youth  will  have  the  hon- 
or to  guide  Lady  Fleming." 

This  was  no  time  to  dispute  the  arrangement,  although  it 
was  not  that  which  Roland  Grreme  would  have  chosen.  Cath- 
erine Seyton,  who  well  knew  the  garden  path,  tripped  on  before 
like  a  sylph,  rather  leading  the  Abbot  than  receiving  assistance 
— the  Queen,  her  native  spirit  prevailing  over  female  fear,  and 
a  thousand  painful  reflections,  moved  steadily  forward,  by  the 
assistance  of  Henry  Seyton — while  the  Lady  Fleming,  encum- 
bered with  her  fears  and  her  helplessness,  Roland  Graeme,  who 
followed  in  the  rear,  and  who  bore  under  the  other  arm  a 
packet  of  necessaries  belonging  to  the  Queen.  The  door  of 
the  garden  which  communicated  with  the  shore  of  the  islet, 
yielded  to  one  of  the  keys  of  which  Roland  had  possessed  him- 
self although  not  until  he  had  tried  several — a  moment  of 
anxious  terror  and  expectation.  The  ladies  were  then  partly 
led,  partly  carried,  to  the  side  of  the  lake,  where  a  boat  with 
six  rowers  attended  them,  the  men  couched  along  the  bottom 
to  secure  them  from  observation.  Henry  Seyton  placed  the 
Queen  in  the  stern ;  the  Abbot  offered  to  assist  Catherine,  but 
she  was  seated  by  the  Queen's  side  before  he  could  utter  his 
proffer  of  help;  and  Roland  Giwinc  was  just  lifting  Lady 
Fleming  over  the  boat-side,  when  a  thought  suddenly  occurred 
to  him,  and  exclaiming  "  Forgotten,  forgotten  !  wait  for  me  but 
one  half  minute,"  he  replaced  on  the  shore  the  helpless  lady  of 
the  bedchamber,  threw  the  Queen's  packet  into  the  boat,  and 
sped  back  through  the  garden  with  the  noiseless  speed  of  a 
bird  on  the  wing. 

"  By  Heaven,  he  is  false  at  last !"  said  Seyton ;  I  ever  feared  it !" 

"  He  is  as  true,"  said  Catherine,  '•  as  Heaven  itself,  and  that  I 
will  maintain." 

"  Be  silent,  minion,"  said  her  brother,  "  for  shame,  if  not  for 
fear.  Fellows,  put  off,  and  row  for  your  lives !" 

"  Help  me,  help  me  on  board  !"  said  the  deserted  Lady  Flem- 
ing, and  that  louder  than  prudence  warranted. 

"Put  off— put  off;"  cried  Henry  Seyton;  "leave  all  behind, 
so  the  Queen  is  safe." 

"  Will  you  permit  this,  madam  ?"  said  Catherine,  imploring- 
ly  ;  "  you  leave  your  deliverer  to  death." 

"  I  will  not,"  said  the  Queen.  "  Seyton  I  command  you  to 
stay  at  every  risk." 


TUK  LADIES'  READER.  333 

"Pardon  me,  madam,  if  I  disobey,"  said  the  intractable 
young  man ;  and  with  one  hand  lifting  in  Lady  Fleming,  he  be- 
gan himself  to  push  off  the  boat. 

She  was  two  fathoms'  length  from  the  shore,  and  the  rowers 
were  getting  her  head  round,  when  Roland  Grseme,  arriving, 
bounded  from  the  beach  and  attained  the  boat,  overturning 
Seyton,  on  whom  he  lighted.  The  youth  swore  a  deep  but 
suppressed  oath,  and  stopping  Gra3me  as  he  stepped  toward 
the  stern,  said,  "Your  place  is  not  with  high-born  dames — 
keep  to  the  head  and  trim  the  vessel.  Now  give  way — give 
way.  liow,  for  God  and  the  Queen!" 

The  rowers  obeyed,  and  began  to  pull  vigorously. 

"  Why  did  you  not  muffle  the  oars?"  said  Roland  Graeme  ; 
"  this  dash  must  awaken  the  sentinel.  Row,  lads,  and  get  out  of 
iva-'h  of  shot;  for  had  not  old  Hildebrand,  the  warder,  supped 
upon  poppy-porridge,  this  whispering  must  have  waked  him." 

"  It  was  all  thine  own  delay,"  said  Seyton ;  "  thou  shalt 
reckon  with  me  hereafter  for  that  and  other  matters." 

]>ut  Roland's  apprehension  was  verified  too  instantly  to  per- 
mit him  to  reply.  The  sentinel,  whose  slumbering  had  with- 
stood the  whispering,  was  alarmed  by  the  dash  of  the  oars, 
liallenge  was  instantly  heard.  "  A  boat — a  boat ! — bring 
to,  or  I  shoot !"  And  as  they  continued  to  ply  their  oars,  he 
called  aloud,  "Treason!  treason !"  rung  the  bell  of  the  castle, 
and  discharged  his  harquebuss  at  the  boat.  The  ladies  crowd- 
ed on  each  other  like  startled  wild-fowl,  at  the  flash  and  report 
of  the  piece,  while  the  men  urged  the  rowers  to  the  utmost 
speed.  They  heard  more  than  one  ball  whiz  along  the  surface 
of  the  lake,  at  no  great  distance  from  their  little  bark;  and 
from  the  lights,  which  glanced  like  meteors  from  window  to  win- 
dow, it  was  evident  the  whole  castle  was  alarmed,  and  their 
escape  discovered. 

"  Pull !"  again  exclaimed  Seyton ;  "  stretch  to  your  oars,  or  I 
will  spur  you  to  the  task  with  my  dagger — they  will  launch  a 
boat  immediately.'1 

"That  is  eared  f,,r,"  said  Roland;  I  locked  gate  and  wicket 
on  them  wln-n  I  \vmt  Iwk,  and  no  boat  will  stir  from  the 
island  this  night,  if  doors  of  good  oak  and  bolts  of  iron  can 
keep  men  within  stone  walls.  And  now  I  resign  my  office  of 
porter  of  Lochle\  en,  and  <jive  the  keys  to  the  Kelpie's  keeping." 

As  the  heavy  keys  plunovd  in  the  lake,  the  Abbot,  who  till 
then  had  been  repeating  iiis  prayers,  exclaimed,  "Now,  bless 
thee  my  son!  thy  ready  prtidene,-  puts  shame  on  us  all." 


334  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

"  I  knew,"  said  Mary,  drawing  her  breath  more  freely,  as 
they  were  now  out  of  reach  of  the  musketry — "  I  knew  my 
squire's  truth,  promptitude,  and  sagacity.  I  must  have  him 
dear  friends  with  niy  no  less  true  knights,  Douglas  and  Seyton 
• — but  where,  then,  is  Douglas  ?" 

"  Here,  madam,"  answered  the  deep  and  melancholy  voice 
of  the  boatman  who  sat  next  her,  and  who  acted  as  steersman. 

"Alas!  was  it  you  who  stretched  your  body  before  me," 
said  the  Queen,  "  when  the  balls  were  raining  around  us  f " 

"  Believe  you,"  said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  "  that  Douglas  would 
have  resigned  to  any  one  the  chance  of  protecting  his  Queen's 
life  with  his  own  ?" 

The  dialogue  was  here  interrupted  by  a  shot  or  two  from 
one  of  those  small  pieces  of  artillery  called  falconets,  then  used 
in  defending  castles.  The  shot  was  too  vague  to  have  any 
effect,  but  the  broader  flash,  the  deeper  sound,  the  louder  re- 
turn which  was  made  by  the  midnight  echoes  of  Bennarty, 
terrified  and  imposed  silence  on  the  liberated  prisoners.  The 
boat  was  run  alongside  of  a  rude  quay  or  landing-place,  run- 
ning out  from  a  garden  of  considerable  extent,  ere  any  of  them 
again  attempted  "to  speak.  They  landed,  and  while  the  Abbot 
returned  thanks  aloud  to  Heaven,  which  had  thus  far  favored 
their  enterprise,  Douglas  enjoyed  the  best  reward  of  his  despe- 
rate undertaking,  in  conducting  the  Queen  to  the  house  of  the 
gardener. 


THERE  IS  A  SWEETNESS  IX  WOMAN'S  DECAY.-JAMEs  G. 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 
When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  away, 
When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone, 
And  the  tint  that  glow'd,  and  the  eye  that  shone, 
And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 
And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower 
That  ever  in  Paistum's  garden  blew, 
Or  ever  was  steep'd  in  fragrant  clew, 
When  all  that  was  bright  and  fair  is  fled, 
But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

0 !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  wither' d  rose; 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallowed  rays ; 


TlIK    LADIKS'    KKADKL;.  335 

And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 

Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye, 

Like  a  cloud  whereon  the  queen  of  night 

Has  pour'd  her  softest  tint  of  light ; 

And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue, 

"\Vhere  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 

The  snow  of  her  pale  and  tender  cheek ; 

And  there  are  tones  that  sweetly  speak 

<  if  a  spirit  who  longs  for  a  purer  day, 

And  is  ready  to  wing  her  flight  away. 

In  the  flush  of  youth,  and  the  spring  of  feeling, 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealing 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path, 
And  all  the  endearments  that  pleasure  hath 
Are  pour'd  from  her  full,  o'erflowing  horn, 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn, 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song 
The  maiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 
And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound; 
a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit, 
Whh  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit, 
And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core, 
And  I  lie  heart  in  its  fulness  flowing  o'er 
With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repressed, 

iiort  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast: 
In  this  enliven'd  and  gladsome  hour 
The  spirit  may  burn  with  a  brighter  power ; 
But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day, 
When  the  heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining, 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath, 
When  it  comes  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose ; 
And  the  lip,  that  swell'd  with  a  living  glow, 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fallen  snow ; 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair — 
But  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there 
When  the  tide  of'  life,  from  its  secret  dwelling, 
In  a  sudden  gush  is  deeply  swelling. 
And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips, 
Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 
As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too 
As  the  clouds  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 
That  seem  like  a  host  of  glory  met 
To  honor  the  sun  at  his  golden  set ; 
0 !  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 
How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  ones  cling ; 


33G  THE   LADIES    READER. 

Po  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 
"Where  the  glassy  vapor  cheats  his  eyes  ; 
And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 
And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 
And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 
Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 
And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled, 
And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 
Her  eye  still  beams  unwonted  fires, 
With  a  woman's  love  and  a  saint's  desires, 
And  her  last,  fond,  lingering  look  is  given 
To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  heaven, 
As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 
To  a  purer  world  and  a  brighter  day. 


POETS  AND 

ONE  of  the  most  natural  and  universal  faculties  of  man  is 
that  of  reproducing,  internally  by  imagination  and  thought, 
and  externally  by  art  and  speech,  the  material  and  moral  uni- 
verse in  the  midst  of  which  he  has  been  placed  by  Providence. 
Man  is  the  reflecting  mirror  of  nature.  Every  thing  is  recreated 
by  him,  and,  through  poetry,  every  thing  is  reanimated  and  re- 
ceives new  life.  It  is  another  state  of  existence,  which  God  has 
permitted  man  to  make,  by  multiplying  external  being  in  his 
thoughts  and  in  his  words — an  inferior  power  but  not  the  less 
real — which  truly  creates,  although  it  only  does  so  from  the 
elements,  the  images,  and  recollections  of  what  nature  has  em- 
bodied before  him — an  imitation  like  the  sport  of  a  child,  yet 
still  the  play  of  the  mind  upon  the  impressions  which  it  re- 
ceives from  nature — a  play  in  which  we  continually  reiterate  the 
fleeting  image  of  the  external  and  internal  worlds,  which  ex- 
pands, passes  away,  and  renews  itself  unceasingly  before  us. 
Therefore  doth  poetry  mean  CREATION. 

Memory  is  the  first  element  of  this  creation,  because  it  is  by 
memory  that  we  retrace  upon  our  minds  the  image  of  things 
that  have  passed.  The  muses,  symbols  of  inspiration,  were  said 
by  the  ancients  to  be  the  daughters  of  memory. 

Imagination  is  the  second ;  for  imagination  colors  and  ani- 
mates the  outline  drawn  by  memory. 

Sensitiveness  is  the  third  ;  because,  on  the  sight  or  remem- 
brance of  past  events  presenting  itself  to  the  mind,  sensitiveness 
causes  us  to  receive  physical  or  moral  impressions  almost  as 


THE  LADIES'    READER,  337 

strong  and  intense  as  would  be  the  impression  of  the  events 
themselves  if  actually  occurring  before  our  eyes. 

Judgment  is  the  fourth ;  for  by  it  alone  are  we  taught  in 
what  order,  in  what  proportions,  in  what  relations,  and  in  what 
true  harmony  to  combine  and  arrange  these  remembrances  or 
phantasms — these  historical  or  imaginary  incidents  or  feelings 
— that  we  make  them  conform  as  much  as  possible  to  nature,  to 
probability,  and  to  truth,  so  that  they  may  produce  upon  our- 
selves and  upon  others  an  impression  as  complete  as  if  the  fic- 
tion were  reality. 

The  fifth  element  necessary  to  this  creation  or  to  this  poesy 
is  the  gift  of  expressing  by  language  what  we  observe  and  feel 
internally — of  producing  outwardly  what  stirs  us  from  within — 
to  paint  with  words,  to  give  to  words,  as  we  may  say,  the  color, 
the  impression,  the  movement,  the  pulsation,  the  life,  the  joy, 
or  the  grief  felt  by  our  own  hearts  at  the  sight  of  the  object 
which  \vi-  imagine. 

La-tly,  the  sixth  element  necessary  to  this  creation,  which  we 
vail  poesy,  is  that  the  poet's  ear  should  possess  musical  feeling; 
for  he-  sings  where  others  speak,  and  all  song  requires  music  to 
mark  its  melody,  and  to  render  it  more  sonorous  and  more  vo- 
luptuous to  our  senses  and  to  our  mind. 

But  the  poet,  as  I  have  described  him,  must  not  only  be 
gifted  with  a  vast  memory,  a  copious  imagination,  a  keen  sensi- 
tiveness, a  clear  judgment,  a  strong  power  of  expression,  a  mu- 
-i'-al  feeling  as  well  of  time  as  of  harmony — he  must  be  a  deep 
philosopher,  for  wisdom  is  the  soul  of  his  song;  he  must  be  a 
]<'<j;islator,  for  he  should  understand  the  laws  which  control  the 
relations  of  men  to  each  other,  which  are  to  society  and  to  na- 
tions  what  mortar  is  to  buildings;  he  must  have  the  warrior's 
spirit,  for  he  has  to  sing  of  the  battle-field  and  the  storm  of 
towns,  the  march  and  flight  of  armies ;  he  must  have  the  soul 
of  a  hero,  for  he  relates  the  achievements  and  the  devoted  sacri- 
fices of  the  great ;  he  must  be  a  historian,  for  his  poems  are  nar- 
ratives ;  he  must  be  eloquent,  for  his  characters  must  harangue 
j:nil  debate ;  he  must  have  traveled,  for  he  describes,  earth,  sea, 
and  mountains,  the  productions  of  nature,  the  monuments  of 
men,  and  the  manners  of  people ;  he  must  know  animated  and 
inorganic  matter,  geography,  astronomy,  navigation,  agriculture, 
the  arts,  and  even  the  common  trades  of  his  time,  for  his  songs 
(  xt'-nd  over  heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  and  he  draws  his  meta- 
phors, his  illustrations,  and  his  comparisons  from  the  motion  of 
the  stars,  the  handling  of  vessels,  the  forms  and  habits  of  the 
22 


338  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

wildest  and  the  tamest  beasts — a  seaman  among  sailors,  a  herds- 
man among  graziers,  a  laborer  among  laborers,  a  smith  among 
smiths,  a  workman  among  workmen,  even  a  beggar  among  the 
beggars  at  the  palace  or  the  cottage  gate.  His  mind  should 
be  simple  as  a  child's ;  tender,  compassionate,  and  pitiful  as  a 
woman's ;  firm  and  inflexible  as  that  of  a  judge  or  of  a  patri- 
arch ;  for  he  tells  of  the  sports,  the  innocence,  and  the  candor 
of  childhood,  the  loves  of  men  and  beauteous  maidens,  the  af- 
fections and  the  woes  of  the  heart,  and  the  sympathy  of  com- 
passion with  misery ;  he  writes  with  tears ;  his  master-piece  is 
to  make  them  flow.  He  should  be  able  to  inspire  men  with 
pity,  the  most  beautiful,  because  the  most  unselfish  of  human 
sympathies.  Lastly,  he  should  be  truly  pious,  filled  with  the 
presence  and  worship  of  the  Almight}7,  for  he  speaks  as  much 
of  heaven  as  of  earth.  His  mission  is  to  make  men  aspire  to 
the  invisible  and  superior  world ;  to  force  all  things,  even  though 
inanimate,  to  proclaim  the  name  of  the  Most  High,  and  to  im- 
press all  the  emotions  he  excites  in  the  mind  or  in  the  heart 
with  that  immortal,  infinite,  and  undefinable  character  which  is, 
as  it  were,  the  atmosphere  and  invisible  element  of  the  Di- 
vinity. 

Such  should  be  the  perfect  poet;  a  living  epitome  of  all  the 
gifts,  all  the  perceptions,  all  the  endowments,  all  the  wisdom, 
all  the  tenderness,  all  the  virtuous  and  heroic  instincts  of  the 
soul — a  creature  as  perfect  as  our  imperfect  humanity  will 
allow. 


TRUE 


No  quaint  conceit  of  speech, 
No  golden,  minted  phrase  — 

Dame  Nature  needs  to  teach 
To  echo  woman's  praise  ; 

Pure  love  and  truth  unite 

To  do  thee,  "Woman,  right  ! 

She  is  the  faithful  mirror 

Of  thoughts  that  brightest  be  — 
Of  feelings  without  error, 

Of  matchless  constancie  ; 
When  art  essays  to  render 

More  glorious  heaven's  bow  — 
To  paint  the  virgin  splendor 

Of  fresh-fallen  mountain  snow  — 
New  fancies  will  I  find, 
To  laud  true  woman's  mind, 


THE   LADIES'   READER,  339 

No  words  can  lovelier  make 

Virtue's  all-lovely  name, 
No  change  can  ever  shake 

A.  woman's  virtuous  fame ; 
The  moon  is  forth  anew — 

Though  envious  clouds  endeavor 
To  screen  her  from  our  view — 

More  beautiful  than  ever ; 
So,  through  detraction's  haze, 
True  "Woman  shines  alwaies. 

The  many-tinted  rose 

Of  gardens  is  the  queen. 
The  perfumed  violet  knows 

No  peer  where  she  is  seen ; 
The  flower  of  woman-kind 
Is  aye  a  gentle  mind. 


BUGLE  SONG.— TENNYSON. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ; 
0  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elf-land  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky  ; 

They  faint  on  hill,  or  field,  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


WliKHAWKEX.—  FITZ-GREENB  HALLEOK 

"Wehawken !  in  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 
All  wo  adore  of  nature  in  her  wild 

And  frolic  hour  of  infancy  is  met ; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 

Upon  a  lovelier  scone  than  the  full  eye 

Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high 


340  THE  LADIES'  HEADEK. 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags,  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 

And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 
The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 

Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 

The  low  dash  of  the  wave,  with  startled  ear, 

Like  the  death  music  of  his  coming  doom, 

And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force. 

As  the  heart  clings  to  life ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  their  veins  their  wonted  course, 

There  lingers  a  deep  feeling — like  the  moan 

Of  wearied  ocean  when  the  storm  is  gone. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 

Ocean,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  burst  before  him ; 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him — 

The  city  bright  below ;  and  far  away, 

Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 
And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air ; 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 
Green  isle  and  circling  shore  are  blended  there 

In  wild  reality.     "When  life  is  old, 

And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  there  one 

"Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's  days 

Of  happiness  were  passed,  beneath  that  sun, 
That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 

Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 

Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 


PRIDE  OF  ANCESTRY-DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

IT  is  a  noble  faculty  of  our  nature  which  enables  us  to  con- 
nect our  thoughts,  our  sympathies,  and  our  happiness  with 
what  is  distant  in  place  or  time ;  and,  looking  before  and  after, 
to  hold  communion  at  once  with  our  ancestors  and  our  poster- 
ity. Human  and  mortal  although  we  are,  we  are  nevertheless 
not  mere  insulated  beings,  without  relation  to  the  past  or  the 
future.  Neither  the  point  of  time  nor  the  spot  of  earth  in 
which  we  physically  live,  bounds  our  rational  and  intellectual 
enjoyments.  We  live  in  the  past  by  a  knowledge  of  its  history, 
and  in  the  future  by  hope  and  anticipation.  By  ascending  to 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  341 

an  association  with  our  ancestors ;  by  contemplating  their  ex- 
ample and  studying  their  character ;  by  partaking  their  senti- 
ments, and  imbibing  their  spirit;  by  accompanying  them  in 
their  toils;  by  sympathizing  in  their  sufferings,  and  rejoicing  in 
their  successes  and  their  triumphs — we  mingle  our  own  exist- 
ence with  theirs,  and  seem  to  belong  to  their  age.  We  become 
their  contemporaries,  live  the  lives  which  they  lived,  endure 
what  they  endured,  and  partake  in  the  rewards  which  they  en- 
j'>yed.  And  in  like  manner,  by  running  along  the  line  of  fu- 
ture time ;  by  contemplating  the  probable  fortunes  of  those  who 
are  coming  after  us ;  by  attempting  something  which  may  pro- 
mote their  happiness,  and  leave  some  not  dishonorable  memorial 
of  ourselves  for  their  regard  when  we  shall  sleep  with  the  fathers 
— we  protract  our  own  earthly  being,  and  seem  to  crowd  what- 
ever is  future,  as  well  as  all  that  is  past,  into  the  narrow  com- 
pass of  our  earthly  existence.  As  it  is  not  a  vain  and  false,  but 
an  exalted  and  religious  imagination  which  leads  us  to  raise 
our  thoughts  from  the  orb  which,  amidst  this  universe  of  worlds, 
the  Creator  has  given  us  to  inhabit,  and  to  send  them  Avith 
liing  of  the  feeling  which  nature  prompts,  and  teaches  to 
be  proper  among  children  of  the  same  Eternal  Parent,  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  myriads  of  fellow-beings  with  which  his 
goodness  has  peopled  the  infinite  of  space ;  so  neither  is  it  false 
or  vain  to  consider  ourselves  as  interested  or  connected  with 
our  whole  race  through  all  time ;  allied  to  our  ancestors ;  allied 
to  our  posterity ;  closely  compacted  on  all  sides  with  others ; 
ourselves  being  but  links  in  the  great  chain  of  being,  which  be- 
gins with  the  origin  of  our  race,  runs  onward  through  its  suc- 
cessive generations,  binding  together  the  past,  the  present,  and 
the  future,  and  terminating  at  last  with  the  consummation  of 
all  things  earthly  at  the  throne  of  God. 

There  may  be,  and  there  often  is,  indeed,  a  regard  for  ances- 
try, which  nourishes  only  a  weak  pride;  as  there  is  also  a  care 
for  posterity,  which  only  disguises  an  habitual  avarice,  or  hides 
the  workings  <>f  ,-i  low  and  groveling  vanity.  But  there  is  also 
a  moral  and  philosophical  respect  for  our  ancestors,  which  ele- 
vates the  character  and  improves  the  heart.  Next  to  the  sense 
«-!'  religious  duty  and  moral  feeling,  I  hardly  know  what  should 
bear  with  stronger  obligation  on  a  liberal  ;md  enlightened  mind, 
tlrin  a  consciousness  of  alliance  with  excellence  which  is  de- 
parted ;  and  a  consciousness,  too,  that  in  its  acts  and  conduct, 
and  even  in  its  sentiments,  it  may  be  actively  operating  on  the 
happiness  of  those  who  come  after  it.  Poetry  is  found  to  have 


342  THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 

few  stronger  conceptions,  by  which  it  would  affect  or  overwhelm 
the  mind,  than  those  in  which  it  presents  the  moving  and 
speaking  image  of  the  departed  dead  to  the  senses  of  the  living. 
This  belongs  to  poetry  only  because  it  is  congenial  to  our  na- 
ture. Poetry  is,  in  this  respect,  but  the  handmaid  of  true  phil- 
osophy and  morality.  It  deals  with  us  as  human  beings,  nat- 
.  urally  reverencing  those  whose  visible  connection  with  this 
state  of  being  is  severed,  and  who  may  yet  exercise  we  know 
not  what  sympathy  with  ourselves ;  and  when  it  carries  us  for- 
ward, also,  and  shows  us  the  long-continued  result  of  all  the 
good  we  do  in  the  prosperity  of  those  who  follow  us,  till  it 
bears  us  from  ourselves,  and  absorbs  us  in  an  intense  interest 
for  what  shall  happen  to  the  generations  after  us,  it  speaks 
only  in  the  language  of  our  nature,  and  affects  us  with  senti- 
ments which  belong  to  us  as  human  beings. 


THE  RAISING  OF  JAIRUS'  DAUGHTER.-AxxA  CORA  KITCHIE. 

Within  the  darkened  chamber  sat 

A  proud  but  stricken  form ; 
Upon  her  vigil- wasted  cheeks 

The  grief-wrung  tears  were  warm ; 
And  faster  streamed  they  as  she  bent 

Above  a  couch  of  pain, 
Where  lay  a  withering  flower  that  wooed 

Those  fond  eyes'  freshening  ram. 

The  raven  tress  on  that  young  brow 

Was  damp  with  dews  of  death ; 
And  glassier  grew  her  upraised  eye 

With  every  fluttering  breath. 
Coldly  her  slender  fingers  lay 

Within  the  mourner's  grasp: 
Lightly  they  pressed  that  fostering  hand, 

And  stiffened  in  its  grasp. 

Then  low  the  mother  bent  her  knee, 

And  cried  in  fervent  prayer — 
"  Hear  me,  0  God!  mine  own,  my  child, 

Oh,  holy  Father,  spare ! 
My  loved,  my  last,  mine  only  one — 

Tear  her  not  yet  away : 
Leave  this  crushed  heart  its  best,  sole  joy 

Be  merciful,  I  pray!" 


TILK    LAD  IKS'  READER.  343 

A  radiance  lit  the  maiden's  face, 

Though  fixed  in  death  her  eye ; 
A  smile  had  met  the  angel's  kiss 

That  stole  her  parting  sigh ! 
And  round  her  cold  lips  still  that  smile 

A  holy  brightness  shed, 
As  though  she  joyed  her  sinless  soul 

To  Him  who  gave  had  fled. 

The  mother  clasped  her  senseless  form, 

And  shrieked  in  wild  despair, 
And  kissed  the  icy  lips  and  cheek, 

And  touched  the  dewy  hair. 
••  X.)  warmth — no  life — my  child,  my  child! 

Oh  for  one  parting  word, 
One  murmur  of  that  lute-like  voice, 

Though  but  an  instant  heard ! 

"  She  is  not-  dead — she  could  not  die — 

So  young,  so  fair,  so  pure ; 
Spare  me.  in  pity  spare  this  blow  I 

All  else  I  can  endure. 
Take  hope,  take  peace,  this  blighted  head 

Strike  with  thy  heaviest  rod ; 
But  leave  me  this,  thy  sweetest  boon, 

(live  back  my  child,  0  God!" 

The  suppliant  ceased ;  her  tears  were  stayed ; 

Hushed  were  those  wailings  loud; 
A  hallowed  peace  crept  o'er  her  soul ; 

Her  head  to  earth  was  bowed 
Low  as  her  knee ;  for  as  she  knelt, 

About  her,  lo !  a  flood 
Of  soft,  celestial  lustre  fell — 

A  form  beside  her  stood. 

And  slowly  then  her  awe-struck  face 

And  frighted  eyes  she  raised; 
Her  heart  leaped  high:  those  clouded  orbs 

Grew  brighter  as  she  gazed ; 
For  oh !  they  rested  on  a  shape 

Majestic — yet  so  mild, 
Imperial  dignity  seemed  blent 

With  sweetness  of  a  child. 

It  spake  not,  but  that  saintlike  smile 

Was  full  of  mercy's  light, 
And  power  and  pity  from  those  eyes 

Looked  forth  in  gentle  might ; 
Those  angel  looks,  that  lofty  mien, 

Have  breathed  without  a  word — 
"  Trust,  and  thy  faith  shall  win  thee  all : 

Behold,  lam  thy  Lord!" 


344  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

He  turns,  and  on  that  beauteous  clay 

His  god-like  glances  rest  ; 
Commandingly  the  pallid  brow 

His  potent  fingers  pressed: 
The  frozen  current  flows  anew 

Beneath  that  quickening  hand ; 
The  pale  lips,  softly  panting,  move ; 

She  breathes  at  his  command ! 

%       The  spirit  in  its  kindred  realm 

Has  heard  its  Master's  call ; 
And  back  returning  at  that  voice, 

Resumes  its  earthly  thrall. 
And  now  from  'neath  those  snowy  lids 

It  shines  with  meeker  light, 
As  though  'twere  chastened,  purified, 

By  even  that  transient  flight. 

Loud  swells  the  mother's  cry  of  joy : 

To  Him  how  passing  sweet ! 
Her  child  she  snatches  to  her  breast, 

And  sinks  at  Jesus'  feet. 
"Glory  to  thee,  Almighty  God! 

Who  spared  my  heart  this  blow ; 
And  glory  "to  thine  only  Son — 

My  Saviour's  hand  I  know  1" 


THE  DYING  BIPROVISATORE.-MKs.  HEMAM. 

The  spirit  of  my  land ! 
It  visits  me  once  more ! — though  I  must  die 
Far  from  the  myrtles  which  thy  breeze  has  fann'd, 

My  own  bright  Italy  I 

It  is,  it  is  thy  breath, 

Which  stirs  my  soul  e'en  yet,  as  wavering  flame 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind ; — in  life  and  death 

Still  trembling,  yet  the  same. 

Oh !  that  love's  quenchless  power 
Might  waft  my  voice  to  fill  thy  summer  sky, 
And  through  thy  groves  its  dying  music  shower, 

Italy!  Italy! 

The  nightingale  is  there, 

The  sunbeams's  glow,  the  citron-flower's  perfume, 
The  south-wind's  whisper  in  the  scented  air, — 
It  will  not  pierce  the  tomb ! 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  345 

Never,  oh !  nevermore, 

On  thy  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell, 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore — 

My  Italy,  fere  well! 

Alas ! — thy  hills  among, 
Had  I  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name, 
Of  love  and  grief  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song, 

Unto  immortal  fame ! 

But,  like  a  lute's  brief  tone, 
Like  a  rose-odor  on  the  breezes  cast, 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  day-spring,  seen  and  gone, 

So  hath  my  spirit  pass'd ! 

Pouring  itself  away 
As  a  wild  bird  amidst  the  foliage  turns 
That  which  within  him  triumphs,  beats,  or  burns, 

Into  a  fleeting  lay ; 

That  swells,  and  floats,  and  dies, 
Leaving  no  echo  to  the  summer  woods 
Of  the  rich  breathings  and  impassion'd  sighs, 

"Which  thrill'd  their  solitudes. 

Yec,  yet  remember  me, 

Friends,  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung, 
When  from  thy  bosom,  joyously  and  free, 

The  fiery  fountain  sprung. 

Under  the  dark,  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  heavens,  and  on  the  star-lit  sea, 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  spring's  first  hue, 

Sweet  friends,  remember  me ! 

And  in  the  marble  halls, 

"Where  life's  full  glow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear, 
And  poet-thoughts  embodied  lisht  the  walls, 

Let  me  be  with  you  tlere ! 

Fain  would  I  bind  for  you 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell ; 
Fain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew, — 

Sweet  friends,  bright  land,  farewell  1 
15* 


346  THE  LADIES'  KEADER. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OP  SHAKSPEARE.-CABLYLE. 

SHAKSPEARE,  we  may  say,  embodies  for  us  the  outer  life  of 
our  Europe  as  developed  in  the  middle  ages.  Its  chivalries, 
courtesies,  humors,  ambitions,  what  practical  way  of  thinking,  act- 
ing, looking  at  the  world  men  then  had.  Just  when  that  chiv- 
alry way  of  life  had  reached  its  last  finish,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  breaking  down  into  slow  or  soft  dissolution,  as  we  now  see 
it  everywhere,  this  sovereign  poet,  with  his  seeing  eye,  with  his 
perennial  singing  voice,  was  sent  to  take  note  of  it,  to  give  long- 
enduring  record  of  it. 

Of  this  Shakspeare  of  ours,  perhaps  the  opinion  one  some- 
times hears  a  little  idolatrously  expressed  is,  in  fact,  the  right 
one ;  I  think  the  best  judgment,  not  of  this  country  only,  but 
of  Europe  at  large,  is  slowly  pointing  to  the  conclusion,  that 
Shakspeare  is  the  chief  of  all  poets  hitherto ;  the  greatest  intel- 
lect who,  in  our  recorded  world,  has  left  record  of  himself  in  the 
way  of  literature.  On  the  whole,  I  know  not  such  a  power  of 
vision,  such  a  faculty  of  thought,  if  we  take  all  the  characters 
of  it,  in  any  other  man.  Such  a  calmness  of  depth;  placid 
joyous  strength  ;  all  things  imaged  in  that  great  soul  of  his  so 
true  and  clear,  as  in  a  tranquil  unfathomable  sea !  It  has  been 
said,  that  in  the  constructing  of  Shakspeare's  dramas,  there  is, 
apart  from  all  other  "  faculties,"  as  they  are  called,  an  under- 
standing manifested,  equal  to  that  in  Bacon's  Novum  Organum. 
That  is  true ;  and  it  is  not  a  truth  that  strikes  every  one.  It 
would  become  more  apparent  if  we  tried,  any  of  us  for  himself, 
how,  out  of  Shakspeare's  dramatic  materials,  we  could  fashion 
such  a  result !  The  built  house  seems  all  so  fit — every  way  as 
it  should  be,  as  if  it  came  there  by  its  own  law  and  the  nature 
of  things,  we  forget  the  rude  disorderly  quarry  it  was  shaped 
from.  The  very  perfection  of  the  house,  as  if  nature  herself  had 
made  it,  hides  the  builder's  merit.  Perfect,  more  perfect  than 
any  other  man,  we  may  call  Shakspeare  in  this :  he  discerns, 
knows  as  by  instinct,  what  condition  he  works  under,  what  his 
materials  are,  what  his  own  force  and  its  relation  to  them  is.  It 
is  not  a  transitory  glance  of  insight  that  will  suffice ;  it  is  delib- 
erate illumination  of  the  whole  matter ;  it  is  a  calmly  seeing  eye ; 
a  great  intellect,  in  short. 

Or  indeed  we  may  say  again,  it  is  in  what  I  called  portrait 
painting,  delineating  of  men  and  things,  especially  of  men,  that 
Shakspeare  is  great.  All  the  greatness  of  the  man  comes  out 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  347 

decisively  here.  It  is  unexampled,  I  think,  that  calm  creative 
perspicacity  of  Shakspearc.  The  thing  he  looks  at  reveals  not 
this  or  that  face  of  it,  but  its  inmost  heart  and  generic  secret: 
it  dissolves  itself  as  in  light  before  him,  so  that  he  discerns  the 
perfect  structure  of  it.  Creative,  we  said :  poetic  creation, 
what  is  this  too  but  seeing  the  thing  sufficiently?  The  wore? 
that  will  describe  the  thing,  follows  of  itself  from  such  clear 
intense  sight  of  the  thing.  And  is  not  Shakspeare's  morality, 
his  valor,  candor,  tolerance,  truthfulness;  his  whole  victorious 
>!ivin_fth  ami  greatness,  which  can  triumph  over  such  obstruc- 
tions, visible  there  too  ?  Great  as  the  world !  No  twisted,  poor 
convex-concave  mirror,  reflecting  all  objects  with  its  own  con- 
vexities and  concavities;  a  perfectly  level  mirror;  that  is  to  say 
withal,  if  we  will  understand  it,  a  man  justly  related  to  all  things 
and  men,  a  good  man.  It  is  truly  a  lordly  spectacle  how  this 
trivat.  soul  takes  in  all  kinds  of  men  and  objects,  a  Falstaff,  an 
Othello,  a  Juliet,  a  Coriolanus;  sets  them  all  forth  to  us  in  their 
round  completeness;  loving,  just,  the  equal  brother  of  all. 

If  I  say  that  Shakspeare  is  the  greatest  of  intellects,  I  have 
said  all  concerning  him.  But  there  is  more  in  Shakspeare's 
intellect  than  we  have  yet  seen.  It  is  what  I  call  an  unconscious 
intellect;  there  is  more  virtue  in  it  than  he  himself  is  aware 
of.  Novalis  beautifully  remarks  of  him,  that  those  dramas  of 
his  arc  products  of  nature  too,  deep  as  nature  herself.  I  find  a 
great  truth  in  this  saying.  Shakspeare's  art  is  not  artifice ;  the 
noblest  worth  of  it  is  not  there  by  plan  or  precontrivance.  It 
grows  up  from  the  deeps  of  nature,  through  this  noble  sincere 
soul,  who  is  a  voice  of  nature.  The  latest  generations  of  men 
will  find  new  meanings  in  Shakspeare,  new  elucidations  of  their 
own  human  being;  "new  harmonies  with  the  infinite  structure 
of  the  Universe;  concurrences  with  later  ideas,  affinities  with 
the  higher  powers  and  senses  of  man."  This  well  deserves 
meditating*  It  is  nature's  highest  reward  to  a  true  simple  great 
soul,  that  he  get  thus  to  be  a  part  of  herself.  Such  a  man's 
works,  whatsoever  he  with  utmost  conscious  exertion  and  fore- 
thought shall  accomplish,  grow  up  withal  wrzconsciously,  from 
the  unknown  deeps  in  him: — as  the  oak-tree  grows  from  the 
earth's  bosom,  as  the  mountains  and  waters  shape  themselves; 
with  a  symmetry  grounded  on  nature's  own  laws,  conformable 
to  all  truth  whatsoever.  How  much  in  Shakspeare  lies  hid ; 
his  sorrows,  his  silent  struggles  known  to  himself;  much  that 
\\a>  not  known  at  all,  not  speakable  at  all:  like  roots,  like  sap 
:-.nd  forces  working  under  ground  !  Speech  is  great ;  but  silence 
•ster. 


348  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW  — SHAKSPKARE. 

BAPTISTA,  father  to  KATHARINA — PETRUCHIO. 

Bap.  Signior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us ; 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ?  [Exit. 

Pet.  I  pray  you  do;  I  will  attend  her  here, 
And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 
Say,  that  she  rail;  Why,  then  I'll  tell  her  plain, 
She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale  : 
Say,  that  she  frown ;  I'll  say  she  looks  as  clear 
As  morning  roses  newly  wash'd  with  dew: 
Say,  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word ; 
Then  I'll  commend  her  volubility, 
And  say — she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence  ; 
If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I'll  give  her  thanks, 
As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week ; 
If  she  deny  to  wed,  I'll  crave  the  day 
When  I  shall  ask  the  banns,  and  when  be  married: — 
But  here  she  comes ;  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

Enter  KATHARINA. 
Good-morrow,  Kate ;  for  that's  your  name,  I  hear. 

Kate,  Well  have  you  heard,  but  s  mething  hard  of  hearing; 
They  call  me — Katharine,  that  do  talk  of  me. 

Pet.  You  lie,  in  faith ;  for  you  are  call'd  plain  Kate, 
And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst ; 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-Hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates;  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation; 
Hearing  thy  mildness  prais'd  in  every  town, 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded, 
(Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs,) 
Myself  am  mov'd  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Kath.  Mov'd  1  in  good  time :  let  him  that  mov'd  you  hither, 
Remove  you  hence :  I  knew  you  at  the  first, 
You  were  a  moveable. 

Pet.  Nay,  come,  Kate,  come :  you  must  not  look  so  sour. 

Kath.  It  is  my  fashion,  when  I  see  a  crab. 

Pet.  Why,  here's  no  crab ;  and  therefore  look  not  sour. 

Kath.  There  is,  there  is. 

Pet.  Then  show  it  me. 

Kath.  Had  I  a  glass,  I  would. 

Pet.  What,  you  mean  my  face  ? 

Kath.  Well  aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.  Now,  by  Saint  George,  I  am  too  yoting  for  you. 

Kath.  Yet  you  are  withered. 

Pet.  'Tis  with  cares. 

Kath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.  Nay,  hear  you,  Kate :  in  sooth,  you  'scape  not  so. 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  349 

Kaih.  T  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry ;  let  me  go. 

1  'ct.  No,  not  a  whit ;  I  find  you  passing  gentle 
'Twas  told  me  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and  sullen, 
And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar ; 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  courteous ; 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time  flowers ; 
Thou  canst  not  frown,  thou  canst  not  look  askance, 
Nor  bite  the  lip,  as  angry  wenches  will ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers, 
~\\rith  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 
Why  does  the  world  report,  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 

0  slanderous  world !  Kate,  like  the  hazel-twig, 
Is  straight,  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue, 
As  hazel-nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 
0,  let  me  see  thee  walk :  thou  dost  not  halt. 

Kath.  Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  command. 

Pet.  Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove, 
As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait  ? 

'!i.  "Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly  speech  ? 

Pet.  It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

Knth.  A  witty  mother!  witless  else  her  son. 

Pel  But,  setting  all  this  chat  aside, 
Thus  in  plain  terms : — Your  father  hath  consented 
That  you  shall  be  my  wife ;  your  dowry  'greed  on; 
And  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn ; 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty, 
(Thy  beauty  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well,) 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me ; 
For  I  am  he,  am  born  to  tame  you  Kate  ; 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild  cat  to  a  Kate 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 

« -omes  your  father;  never  make  denial, 

1  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 

Re-enter  BAPTISTA,  GREMIO,  and  TRANIO. 

Bap.  Now, 

Signior  Petruchio :  How  sped  you  with 
M  v  daughter  ? 

Pet.  How  but  well,  sir  ?  how  but  well  ? 

It  were  impossible,  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  daughter  Katharine,  in  your  dumps  ? 

Kath.  Call  you  me  daughter  ?  now  I  promise  you, 
You  have  show'd  a  tender  fatherly  regard, 
To  wish  me  wed  one  half  lunatic. 

Pet.  Father,  'tis  thus,— yourself  and  all  the  world, 
That  talk'd  of  her,  hath  talk'd  amiss  of  her; 
If  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy: 
For  she's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove ; 
For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grissel ; 
And  to  conclude. — we  have  'greed  so  well  together, 
That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 


350  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Kaih.  I'll  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 

Gre.  Hark,  Petruchio !  she  says,  she'll  see  thee  hang'd  first 

Tra.  Is  this  your  speeding  ?  nay,  then,  good  night  our  part. 

Pet.  Be  patient,  gentlemen ;  I  choose  her  for  myself; 
If  she  and  I  be  pleas'd,  what's  that  to  you  ? 
"Tis  bargain'd  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 
That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  tell  you  'tis  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me: — 0,  the  kindest  Kate! — 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate :  I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy apparel'gainst  the  wedding-day: — 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests; 
I  will  be  sure,  my  Katharine  shall  be  line. 

Bap.  I  know  not  what  to  say :  but  give  me  your  hands ; 
God  send  you  joy,  Petruchio !  'tis  a  match, 

Gre.  Tra.  Amen,  say  we ;  we  will  be  witnesses. 

Pet.  Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu ; 

I  will  to  Venice,  Sunday  comes  apace : 

We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array ; 
And  kiss  me  Kate,  we  will  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

[Exeunt  PETRUCHIO  and  KATHARTNA  severally. 

Katharina  marries  Petruchio  and  becomes  an  affectionate  and  obedient 
wife.  While  on  a  visit  to  her  family  she  teaches  her  sisters  their  duty  to 
their  husbands. 

SCENE — A  Banquet  set  out;  BAPTISTA,  LUCENTIO,  HORTENSIO,  BIONDELLO, 
GRUMIO,  PETRUCHIO  and  others,  seated. 

Bap.  Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Pet.  Well,  I  say — no :  and  therefore,  for  assurance 
Let's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife; 
And  he,  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her 
Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.  Content : — What  is  the  wager  ? 

Luc.  Twenty  crowns. 

Pet.  Twenty  crowns ! 

I'll  venture  so  much  on  my  hawk  or  hound, 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.  A  hundred  then.    ; 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match ;  'tis  done. 

Hor.  Who  shall  begin  ? 

Luc.  That  will  I.     Go, 
Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bap.  Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Luc.  I'll  have  no  halves ;  I'll  bear  it  all  myself. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO. 
How  now !  what  news  ? 

Bion.  Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word, 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

Pet.  How!  she  is  busy,  and. she  cannot  cornel 
Is  that  an  answer  ? 


THE  LADIES'  READER,  35  j 

Gru.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too : 

Pray  Heaven,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 

Pet.  I  hope  better. 

Hor.  Sirrah,  Biondello,  go,  and  entreat  my  wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.  [Exit  BIONDELLO 

-Pet.     .  0,  ho!  entreat  her! 

Xay.  then  she  must  needs  come. 

JI"r-  I  am  afraid,  sir, 

Do  what  you  can,  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO. 
Now  where's  my  wife  ? 

Bion.  She  says,  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in  hand ; 
She  will  not  come ;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Pet.  Worse  and  worse ;  she  will  not  come  I*  0  vile. 
Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd ! 
Sirrah,  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress ; 

I  command  her  to  come  to  me.  [Exit  GRUMIO. 

ffor.  I  know  her  answer. 
Pel.  What? 

She  will  not  come. 
Pet.  The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  end. 

Enter  KATIIARINA. 

Bap.  Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharina ! 

Kath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me  ? 

Pet.  Where  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's  wife  ? 

Kath.  They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlor  fire. 
Pet.  Go  fetch  them  hither ;  if  they  deny  to  come, 
Swinge  mo  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  husbands 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight. 

[Exit  KATIIARINA. 

Luc.  Here's  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder. 

Hor.  And  so  it  is ;  I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

Pet.  Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet  life, 
An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy ; 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and  happy. 

J'x'l'.  Now  fair  befal  thee,  good  Petruchio ! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won ;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns  ! 
Another  dowry  to  another  daughter, 
For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet : 
And  show  more  signs  of  her  obedience, 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 

Re-e-nl ••/•  KATIIAKIXA,  with  BIANCA  and  Widow. 
See  where  she  comes ;  and  brings  your  froward  wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion, — 
Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 
Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under  foot. 

[KATHARiN'A^ttZte  off  her  cap  and  throws  it  down. 

Wid.  Lord,  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh, 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass ! 


352  THE  LADIES'  HEADER, 

Bian.  Fye !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this? 

Luc.  I.  would  your  duty  was  as  foolish  too : 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Hath  cost  me  an  hundred  crowns  since  supper-time. 

Bian.  The  more  fool  you,  for  laying  on  my  duty. 

Pet.  Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  head-strong  women, 
"What  duty  they  owe  to  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Wid.  Come,  come,  you're  mocking ;  we  will  have  no  telling. 

Pet  Come  on,  I  say.  and  first  begin  with  her. 

Wid.  She  shall  not. 

Pet.  I  say,  she  shall ; — and  first  begin  with  her. 

Kath.  Fye,  fye  !  unknit  that  threat'ning,  unkind  brow: 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor  : 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as"frosts  bite  the  meads; 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds ; 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd  is  like  a  fountain  troubled, 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty ; 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign ;  one  that  cares  for  thee, 
And  for  thy  maintenance  ;  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labor,  both  by  sea  and  land ; 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands, 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience  ; — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince, 
Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband ; 
And  when  she's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 
What  is  she,  but  a  foul  contending  rebel, 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? — 
I  am  asham'd,  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  offer  war,  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace  ; 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy  and  sway 
When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak  and  smooth, 
Unapt  to  toil,  and  trouble  in  the  world ; 
But  that  our  soft  conditions,  and  our  hearts, 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts? 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms ! 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours, 
My  heart  as  great ;  my  reason,  haply,  more, 
To  bandy  word  for  word  and  frown  for  frown ; 
But  now  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws ; 
Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare — 
That  seeming  to  be  most  which  least  we  are. 

Pet.  Come,  Kate, 
We  three  are  married,  but  we  two  are  sped.  [Ex&mt. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  353 


THE  MESSIAH— ALBXANDEK  POPK. 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma!  begiu  the  song: 
To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aoniun  maids, 
1  (flight  no  more — 0  Thou  my  voice  inspire 
Who  touch'd  Isaiah's  hallow'd  lips  with  fire! 

H:ipt  into  future  times,  the  bard  begun: 
A  Virgin  shall  conceive,  a  Virgin  bear  a  Son! 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the  skies: 
The  jethereal  spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move, 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 
Ye  heavens!  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower ! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 
From  storm  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade. 
All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  frauds  shall  fail; 
Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale ; 
Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And  white-robed  Innocence  from  Heaven  descend. 
Swift  Hy  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn! 
Oh  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be  born! 
See,  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  bring, 
With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring: 
See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance, 

See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance : 

See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Saron  rise, 

And  Carmera  flowery  top  perfume  the  skies ! 

Hark !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers ; 

Prepare  the  way!  A  God,  a  God  appears! 

A  God,  a  God!  the  vocal  hills  reply; 

The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 

Lo,  earth  r-vcivL-s  him  from  the  bending  skies! 

Sink  down,  yo  mountains;  and  ye  valleys  rise! 

With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay ; 

Be  smooth,  ye  rocks ;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way. 

Tin-  Saviour  comes!  by  ancient  bards  foretold: 
i  I  im,  ye  deaf;  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 

He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 

And  on  the  sightless  eye-ball  pour  the  day  : 

'Tis  he  the  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 

And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear : 

The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 

And  leap  exulting,  like  the  bounding  roe. 

No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall  hear  ; 

From  every  face  ho  wipes  off  every  tear. 

In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound, 

And  hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal  wound. 
23 


g54  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
•  Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air; 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects ; 
The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms, 
Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms: 
Thus  shall  mankind  his  guardian  care  engage, 
The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 
No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes. 
Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  cover' d  o'er, 
The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more ; 
But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  plough-share  end. 
Then  palaces  shall  rise ;  the  joyful  son 
Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun ; 
Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that  sow'd,  shall  reap  the  field. 
The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 
The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 
"Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplex'd  with  thorn, 
The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn ; 
To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowery  palms  succeed, 
And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 
The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead, 
And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead. 
The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 
And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake, 
Pleased,  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey, 
And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  innocently  play. 
Rise,  crowu'd  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise  1 
Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 
See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 
See  future  sons,  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 
In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 
Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies ! 
See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 
Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend; 
See  thy  bright  altars  throng'd  with  prostrate  kings, 
And  heap'd  with  products  of  Sabean  springs ! 
For  thee  Idume's  spicy  forests  blow, 
And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's  mountain  glow. 
See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 
And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day! 
No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 
Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn ; 


TIIK  LAD1KS-   HEADER.  355 

But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 
One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  bla/.e 
O'erflow  thy  courts :  the  Light  himself  shall  shine 
Reveal'd,  and  God's  eternal  day  be  thine ! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away, 
But  tix'd  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains ; 
Thy  realm  for  ever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns! 


THE  SKELETON  GATE.— "WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

[The  characters  of  The  Skeleton's  Cave,  are  Father  Ambrose,  an  aged 
Catholic  prest ;  Le  Maire,  a  gay  sportsman  of  French  origin ;  and  his 
niece,  a  young  Anglo-American.] 

The  ecclesiastic  had  taken  the  hat  from  his  brow  that  he 
in iu'ht  enjoy  the  breeze  which  played  lightly  about  the  cliffs; 
and  the  coolness  of  which  was  doubly  grateful  after  the  toil  of 
tin-  ascrnt.  In  doing  this  he  uncovered  a  high  and  ample  fore- 
head, such  as  artists  love  to  couple  with  the  features  of  old  age, 
when  they  would  represent  a  countenance  at  once  noble  and  ven- 
erable. This  is  the  only  feature  of  the  human  face  which  Time 
spares;  he  dims  the  lustre  of  the  eye;  he  shrivels  the  cheek, 
he  uestroys  the  firm  or  sweet  expression  of  the  mouth;  he 
thins  and  whitens  the  hairs  ;  but  the  forehead,  that  temple  of 
thought,  is  beyond  the  reach,  or  rather,  shows  more  grand  and 
lofty  for  the  ravages  which  surround  it. 

The  two  persons  whom  he  addressed  were  much  younger. 
One  of  them  was  in  the  prime  of  manhood  and  personal 
strength,  rather  tall,  and  of  a  vigorous  make.  He  wore  a  hunt- 
ing-cap, from  the  lower  edge  of  which  curled  a  profusion  of 
strong  dark  hair,  rather  too  long  for  the  usual  mode  in  the  At- 
lantic states,  shading  a  fresh-colored  countenance,  lighted  by  a 
pair  of  full  black  eyes,-  the  expression  of  which  was  compound- 
ed of  boldness  and  good-humor.  His  dress  was  a  blue  frock- 
coat  trimmed  with  yellow  fringe,  and  bound  by  a  sash  at  the 
waist,  deer-skin  pantaloons,  and  deer-skin  moccasins.  He  car- 
ried a  short  rifle  on  his  left  shoulder;  and  wore  on  his  left  side 
a  leathern  bag  of  rather  ample  dimensions,  and  on  his  right  a 
powder-ilask.  It  was  evident  that  IK;  was  either  a  hunter  by 
occupation,  or  at  least  one  who  made  hunting  his  principal 
amusement ;  and  there  was  something  in  his  air  and  the  neat- 
ness of  his  u'avh  and  equipments  that  bespoke  the  latter. 


356  THE   LADIES'  EEADER. 

On  the  arm  of  this  person  leaned  the  third  individual  of  the 
party,  a  young  woman  apparently  about  nineteen  or  twenty  years 
of  age,  slender  and  graceful  as  a  youthful  student  of  the  classic 
poets  might  imagine  a  wood-nymph.  She  was  plainly  attired 
in  a  straw  hat  and  a  dress  of  russet  color,  fitted  for  a  ramble 
through  that  wild  forest.  The  faces  of  her  two  companions 
were  decidedly  French  in  their  physiognomy ;  hers  was  as  de- 
cidedly Anglo-American.  Her  brown  hair  was  parted  away 
from  a  forehead  of  exceeding  fairness,  more  compressed  on  the 
sides  than  is  usual  with  the  natives  of  England ;  and  showing 
in  the  profile  that  approach  to  the  Grecian  outline  which  is 
remarked  among  their  descendants  in  America.  To  complete 
the  picture,  imagine  a  quiet  blue  eye,  features  delicately  mould- 
ed, and  just  color  enough  on  her  cheek  to  make  it  interesting 
to  watch  its  changes,  as  it  deepened  or  grew  paler  with  the 
varying  and  flitting  emotions  which  slight  cause  will  call  up  in 
a  youthful  maiden's  bosom. 

The  spot  on  which  they  now  stood  commanded  a  view  of  a 
wide  «pxtent  of  uncultivated  and  uninhabited  country.  An 
eminence  interposed  to  hide  from  sight  the  village  they  had 
left ;  and  on  every  side  were  the  summits  of  the  boundless 
forest,  here  and  there  diversified  with  a  hollow  of  softer  and 
richer  verdure,  where  the  hurricane,  a  short  time  before,  had 
descended  to  lay  prostrate  the  gigantic  trees,  and  a  young 
growth  had  shot  up  in  their  stead.  Solitary  savannas  opened 
in  the  depth  of  the  woods,  and  far  off  a  lonely  stream  was  flow- 
ing away  in  silence,  sometimes  among  venerable  trees,  and 
sometimes  through  natural  meadows,  crimson  with  blossoms. 
All  around  them  was  the  might,  the  majesty  of  vegetable  life, 
untamed  by  the  hand  of  man,  and  pampered  by  the  genial 
elements  into  boundless  luxuriance.  The  ecclesiastic  pointed 
out  to  his  companions  the  peculiarities  of  the  scenery ;  he  ex- 
patiated on  the  flowery  beauty  of  those  unshorn  lawns ;  and  on 
the  lofty  growth,  and  the  magnificence  and  variety  of  foliage 
which  distinguish  the  American  forests,  so  much  the  admira- 
tion of  those  who  have  seen  only  the  groves  of  Europe. 

As  the  three  went  forward  they  passed  through  a  heap 
of  dry  leaves  lightly  piled,  which  the  winds  of  the  last 
autumn  had  blown  into  the  cave  from  the  summit  of  the 
surrounding  forest,  and  the  rustling  made  by  their  steps  sound- 
ed strangely  loud  amid  that  death-like  silence.  A  spacious 
cavern  presented  itself  to  their  sight,  the  roof  of  which  near 
the  entrance  was  low,  but  several  paces  beyond  it  rose  to  a 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  357 

great  height,  where  the  smoke  of  the  torch,  ascending,  mingled 
with  the  darkness,  but  the  flame  did  not  reveal  the  face  of  the 
vault. 

On  reaching  again  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  they  were  struck 
with  the  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  heavens.  Dark  heavy 
clouds,  the  round  summits  of  which  were  seen  one  beyond  the 
other,  were  rapidly  rising  in  the  west ;  and  through  the  gray- 
ish  blue  haze  which  suffused  the  sky  before  them,  the  sun 
appeared  already  shorn  of  his  beams.  A  sound  was  heard  afar 
of  mighty  winds  contending  with  the  forest,  and  the  thunder 
rolled  at  a  distance. 

u  We  may  stay  at  least  until  the  storm  is  over,"   said   Father 

AmbrogjJBl  it  would  be  upon  us  before  we  could  descend  these 

cliffs.     Le7"us  watch  it  from  where  we  stand  above  the  tops  of 

old  woods ;  I  can  promise  you  it  will  be  a  magnificent 

spectacle." 

Kuiily,  though  she  would  gladly  have  left  the  cave,  could  say 
nothing  against  the  propriety  of  this  advice  ;  and  even  Le 
Mai iv,  notwithstanding  that  he  declared  he  had  rather  see  a 
well-loaded  table  at  that  moment  than  all  the  storms  that  ever 
blew,  preferred  remaining  to  the  manifest  inconvenience  of 
attempting  a  descent.  In  a  few  moments  the  dark  array  of 
clouds  swept  over  the  face  of  the  sun,  and  a  tumult  in  the 
woods  announced  the  coming  of  the  blast.  The  summits  of 
the  forest  waved  and  stooped  before  it,  like  a  field  of  young  flax 
in  the  summer  breeze — another  and  fiercer  gust  descended — 
another  and  stronger  convulsion  of  the  forest  ensued.  The 
trees  rocked  backward  and  forward,  leaned  and  rose,  and  tossed 
and  swung  their  branches  in  every  direction,  and  the  whirling 
air  above  them  was  filled  with  their  leafy  spoils.  The  roar  was 
tremendous — the  noise  of  the  ocean  in  a  tempest  is  not  louder 
— it  seemed  as  if  that  innumerable  multitude  of  giants  of  the 
wood  raised  a  universal  voice  of  wailing  under  the  fury  that 
smote  and  tormented  them.  At  length  the  rain  began  to  fall, 
first  in  large  and  rare  drops,  and  then  thunder  burst  over  head, 
and  the  waters  of  the  firmament  poured  down  in  torrents,  and 
the  blast  that  howled  in  the  woods  fled  before  them  as  if  from 
an  element  that  it  feared.  The  trees  again  stood  erect,  and 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  rain  beating  heavily  on  the  immense 
canopy  of  leaves  around,  and  the  occasional  crashings  of  the 
thunder,  accompanied  by  flashes  of  lightning,  that  threw  a 
vivid  light  upon  the  walls  of  the  cavern.  The  priest  and  his 
companions  stood  contemplating  this  scene  in  silence,  when  a 


358  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

rushing  of  water  close  at  hand  was  heard.  Father  Ambrose 
showed  the  others  where  a  stream,  formed  from  the  rains  col- 
lected on  the  highlands  above,  descended  on  the  crag  that  over- 
hung the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  and  shooting  clear  of  the  rocks 
on  which  they  stood,  fell  in  spray  to  the  broken  fragments  at 
the  base  of  the  precipice. 

A  gust  of  wind  drove  the  rain  into  the  opening  where  they 
stood,  and  obliged  them  to  retire  farther  within.  The  priest 
suggested  that  they  should  take  this  opportunity  to  examine 
that  part  of  the  cave  which,  in  going  to  the  skeleton's  cham- 
ber, they  had  passed  on  their  left,  observing,  however,  that  he  be- 
lieved it  was  no  otherwise  remarkable  than  for  its  narrowness  and 
its  length.  Le  Maire  and  Emily  assented,  and  the  ^ffenner  tak- 
ing up  the  torch  which  he  had  stuck  in  the  ground,  they  went 
back  into  the  interior.  They  had  just  reached  the  spot  where  the 
two  passages  diverged  from  each  other,  when  a  hideous  and 
intense  glare  of  light  filled  the  cavern,  showing  for  an  instant 
the  walls,  the  roof,  the  floor,  and  every  crag  and  recess,  with 
the  distinctness  of  the  broadest  sunshine.  A  frightful  crash 
accompanied  it,  consisting  of  several  sharp  and  deafening  explo- 
sions, as  if  the  very  heart  of  the  mountain  was  rent  asunder  by 
the  lightning,  and  immediately  after  a  body  of  immense  weight 
seemed  to  fall  at  their  very  feet  with  a  heavy  sound,  and  a 
shock  that  caused  the  place  where  they  stood  to  tremble  as  if 
shaken  by  an  earthquake.  A  strong  blast  of  air  rushed  by 
them,  and  a  suffocating  odor  filled  the  cavern. 

Father  Ambrose  had  fallen  upon  his  knees  in  mental  prayer, 
at  the  explosion ;  but  the  blast  from  the  mouth  of  the  cavern 
threw  him  to  the  earth.  He  raised  himself,  however,  immedi- 
ately, and  found  himself  in  utter  silence  and  darkness,  save  thai 
a  livid  image  of  that  insufferable  glare  floated  yet  before  his 
eyeballs.  He  called  first  upon  Emily,  who  did  not  answer,  then 
upon  Le  Maire,  who  replied  from  the  ground  a  few  paces  near- 
er the  entrance  of  the  cave.  He  also  had  been  thrown  pros- 
trate, and  the  torch  he  carried  was  extinguished.  It  was  but 
the  work  of  an  instant  to  kindle  it  again,  and  they  then  dis 
covered  Emily  extended  near  them  in  a  swoon. 

"  Let  us  bear  her  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,"  said  Le  Maire ; 
"  the  fresh  air  from  without  will  revive  her."  He  took  her  in 
his  arms,  but  on  arriving  at  the  spot  he  placed  her  suddenly  on 
the  ground,  and  raising  both  hands,  exclaimed,  with  an  accent 
of  despair,  "  The  rock  is  fallen ! — the  entrance  is  closed !"  It 
was  but  too  evident — Father  Ambrose  need  ' 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  359 

to  convince  him  of  its  truth — the  huge  rock  which  impended 
over  the  entrance  had  been  loosened  by  the  thunderbolt,  and 
had  fallen  upon  the  floor  of  the  cave,  closing  all  return  to  the 
outer  world. 

<  )n  the  third  day  the  cavern  presented  a  more  gloomy  spec- 
tacle than  it  had  done  at  any  time  since  the  fall  of  the  rock 
took  place.  It  was  now  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  the  shrill  singing  of  the  wind  about  the  cliffs,  and  through 
the  crevice,  which  now  admitted  a  dimmer  light  than  on  the 
day  previous,  announced  the  approach  of  a  storm  from  the 
south.  The  hope  of  relief  from  without  was  growing  fainter 
and  fainter  as  the  time  passed  on  ;  and  the  sufferings  of  the 
prisoners  J^came  more  poignant. 

In  thelRantiine  the  light  from  the  aperture  grew  dimmer 
and  dimmer,  and  the  eyes  of  the  prisoners,  though  accustomed 
to  the  twilight  of  the  cavern,  became  at  length  unable  to  dis- 
tiii'j;uish  objects  at  a  few  paces  from  the  entrance.  The  priest 
and  Lr  Main4  hud  placed  themselves  by  the  couch  of  Emily, 
but  rather,  as  it  seemed,  from  that  instinct  of  our  race  which 
leads  us  to  seek  each  other's  presence,  than  for  any  purpose  of 
conversation,  for  each  of  the  party  preserved  a  gloomy  silence. 
The  topics  of  speculation  on  their  condition  had  been  discussed 
to  weariness,  aud  no  others  had  now  any  interest  for  their 
minds.  It  was  no  unwelcome  interruption  to  that  melancholy 
silence,  when  they  heard  the  sound  of  a  mighty  rain  pouring 
down  upon  the  leafy  summits  of  the  woods,  and  beating  against 
the  naked  walls  and  shelves  of  the  precipice.  The  roar  grew 
more  and  more  distinct,  and  at  length  it  seemed  that  they  could 
distinguish  a  sort  of  shuddering  of  the  earth  above  them,  as  if 
a  mighty  host  was  marching  heavily  over  it.  The  sense  of 
suffering  was  for  a  moment  suspended  in  a  feeling  of  awe  and 
curiosity. 

"That,  likewise,  is  the  rain,"  said  Father  Ambrose,  after  Jis- 
tening  for  a  moment.  "  The  clouds  must  pour  down  a  perfect 
cataract,  when  the  weight  of  its  fall  is  thus  felt  in  the  heart  of 
the  rock."  , 

"  Do  you  hear  that  noise  of  running  water  ?"  asked  Emily, 
whose  quick  ear  had  distinguished  the  rush  of  the  stream 
formed  by  the  collected  rains  over  the  rocks  without  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cav<\ 

"  Would  that  its  channel  were  through  this  cavern,"  exclaimed 
Le  Maire,  starting  up.  "  Ah  !  here  we  have  it — we  have  it ! — 
listen  to  the  dropping  of  water  from  the  roof  near  the  entrance. 


360  TILH  LADIES'  READER. 

And  here  at  the  aperture  !"  He  sprang  thither  in  an  instant, 
A  little  stream  detached  from  the  main  current,  which  descend- 
ed over  rocks  that  closed  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  fell  in  a  thread 
of  silver  amid  the  faint  light  that  streamed  through  the  open- 
ing;  he  knelt  for  a- moment,  received  it  between  his  burning 
lips,  and  then  hastily  returning,  bore  Emily  to  the  spot.  She 
held  out  her  hollowed  palm,  white,  tjiin,  and  semi-transparent, 
like  a  pearly  shell,  used  for  dipping  up  the  waters  from  one  of 
those  sweet  fountains  that  rise  by  the  very  edge  of  the  sea — 
and  as  fast  as  it  filled  with  the  cool  bright  element,  imbibed  it 
with  an  eagerness  and  delight  inexpressible.  •  The  priest  followed 
her  example ;  Le  -Maire  also  drank  from  the  little  stream  as  it 
fell,  bathed  in  it  his  feverish  brow,  and  suffered  it  ta  fall  upon 
his  sinewy  neck. 

"  It  has  given  me  a  new  hold  on  life,"  said  Le  Maire,  his 
chest  distending  with  several  full  and  long  breathings.  "  It  has 
not  only  quenched  that  burning  thirst,  but  it  has  made  my  head 
less  light,  and  my  heart  lighter.  I  will  never  speak  ill  of  this 
element  again — the  choicest  grapes  of  France  never  distilled 
anything  so  delicious,  so  grateful,  so  life-giving.  Take  notice, 
Father  Ambrose,  I  retract  all  I  have  ever  said  against  water 
and  water-drinkers.  I  am  a  sincere  penitent,  and  shall  demand 
absolution. 

Father  Ambrose  had  begun  gently  to  reprove  Le  Maire  for 
his  unseasonable  levity,  when  Emily  cried  out — "  The  rock 
moves  ! — the  rock  moves  !  Come  back — come  further  into  the 
cavern  1"  Looking  up  to  the  vast  mass  that  closed  the  en- 
trance, he  saw  plainly  that  it  was  in  motion,  and  he  had  just 
time  to  draw  Le  Maire  from  the  spot  where  he  had  stooped 
down  to  take  another  draught  of  the  stream,  when  a  large  block 
which  had  been  wedged  in  overhead,  gave  way  and  fell  in  the  very 
place  where  he  had  left  the  prints  of  liis  feet.  Had  he  remained 
there  another  instant,  it  must  have  crushed  him  to  atoms.  The 
prisoners,  retreating  within  the  cavern  far  enough  to  avoid  the 
danger,  but  not  too  far  for  observation,  stood  watching  the 
event  with  mingled  apprehension  and  hope.  The  floor  of  the 
cave,  just  at  the  edge,  on  which  rested  the  fallen  rock, 
yawned  at  the  fissures>  where  the  earth  with  which  they  were 
filled  had  become  saturated  and  swelled  with  water,  and  unable 
any  longer  to  support  the  immense  weight,  settled  away,  at 
first  slowly,  under  it,  and  finally,  along  with  its  incumbent  load, 
fell  suddenly  and  with  a  tremendous  crash,  to  the  base  of  the 
precipice,  letting  the  light  of  day  and  the  air  of  heaven  into 


Till-:  LADII-lb'  HEADER.  36] 

the  cavern.  The  thunder  of  that  disruption  was  succeedec 
\>y  the  lull  of  a  lew  large  fragments  of  rock  on  the  right  and 
•vhieh  the  prii-st  and  his  companions  heard  only  the 
fall  of  the  rain  a::d  the  heavy  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the  forest. 
Father  Ambrose  and  Emily  knelt  involuntarily  in  thanksgiv- 
ing at  their  unexpected  deliverance.  Le  Maire,  although  un- 
nsi-d  to  the  devotional  mood,  observing  their  attitude,  had  bent 
his  knee  to  imitate  it,  when  a  glance  at  the  outer  world  now 
laid  open  to  his  sight,  made  him  start  again  to  his  feet  with  an 
nation  of  delight.  The  other  two  arose  also,  and  turned 
to  the  broad  opening  which  now  looked  out  from  the  cave  over 
the  forest.  On  one  side  of  this  opening  rushed  the  torrent 
whose  friendly  waters  had  undermined  the  rock  at  the  entrance 
and  now  dfbhed  themselves  against  its  shivered  fragments  be- 
low. It  is  not  for  me  to  attempt  to  describe  how  beautiful 
appeared  to  their  eyes  the  world  which  they  feared  never  again 
to  see,  or  how  grateful  to  their  senses  was  that  fresh  and  frag- 
rant air  of  the  forests  which  they  thought  never  to  breathe 
a'_ra'm.  The  light,  although  the  sky  was  thick  with  clouds  and 
rain,  was  almost  too  intense  for  their  vision,  and  they  shaded 
their  brows  with  their  hands  as  they  looked  forth  upon  that 
scene  of  woods  and  meadows  and  waters,  fairer  to  their  view 
than  it  had  ever  appeared  in  the  most  glorious  sunshine. 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  SHIRT.-HooD. 

Witli  lingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  "song  of  the  Shirt!" 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work ! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof  1 
It's  oh!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
\Vhere  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work  I 
16 


302  TUP:   LADIES'  READER. 

"  "Work — work — work ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 
"Work — work — work ! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  I 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

'And  sew  them  on  in  my  dream ! 

"  Oh !  men  with  sisters  dear ! 

Oh !  men  with  mothers  and  wives  I 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch— stitch— stitch ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  SHKOUD  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone ; 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep  ; 
Oh  God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  "Work — work — work ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages?    A  bed  of  straw 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags : 
A  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there ! 

"  "Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work — work — work ! 

As  prisoners  work,  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand ! 

"  Work— work— work ! 

In  the  dull  December  light ; 
And  work — work — work  ! 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright : 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 


THE  LADIES' READER  363 

"  Oh !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet; 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel,    . 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh !  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite,  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart — 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!" 

With  lingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt : 
And  still  in  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  ! — 

She  sung  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt !" 


Till]  LAST  VEXDUE— KEY.  KALPH  HOYT. 

As  I  was  on  a  journey  late,  a  mental  one  I  mean, 
Around  this  mighty  world  of  ours,  I  came  upon  a  scene 

so  astonishing  to  see,  so  comic,  grave,  and  grand, 
I  took  my  note  book  out  with  haste  and  clambered  to  a  stand 
Upon  a  heap  of  broken  wares,  a  motley  pile  of  things, 
That  seemed  they  might  have  once  belonged  to  some  old  race  of  kings 

And  heaps  on,  heaps  were  strewn  about,  as  far  as  eye  could  scan, 
Around  the  Holds,  alonir  the  streams,  where  e'er  the  vision  ran; 
As  if  some  ruthless  creditor  had  levied  on  the  world, 
And  kingdoms,  thrones,  and  diadems,  were  all  to  ruin  hurled ; 
Ill-gotten  chatties  of  the  powers  that  were  compelled  to  "fail," 
And  were  all  brought  together  there  for  one  stupendous  sale  1 

Stood  side  by  side  the  vassal -born,  and  they  of  proudest  birth ; 
No  more  a  slave,  no  more  a  lord,  in  all  Republic  earth. 
Yet  smiled  the  skies  approvingly,  and,  every  landscape  round, 
Rich  harvests  waited  but  a  word,  to  burst  the  teeming  ground ; 


SC4  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Betokening  a  coming  hour,  when,  war's  red  banner  furled, 
Abundance,  and  content  would  bless  a  liberated  world. 

What  may  it  mean,  quoth  I  to  one,  this  great  grotesque  array, 

As  though  the  peasant  and  the  prince  were  made  of  kindred  clay; 

Methinks  I  see  all  equal  here,  the  humble  and  the  proud ; 

Now  what  hath  moved  these  haughty  heads  to  mingle  with  the  crowd  ? 

And  whence  this  huge  chaotic  mass,  here  piled  on  every  hand  : 
Magnificence  and  meanness  strewn,  like  wrecks  along  a  strand, 
As,  when  some  direful  storm  hath  swept  the  surging  ocean  o'er, 
Fleet,  argosy,  and  tiny  bark  with  ruins  line  the  shore. 

Then  lifted  he  to  whom  I  spake  a  fixed  and  frowning  eye, 

As  to  rebuke  such  questioning,  yet  deigning  no  reply ; 

For,  by  the  tokens  at  his  feet,  a  crown  and  broken  mace, 

Behold,  I  was  in  audience  with  one  of  royal  race ! 

Poor  wanderer  1  I  pitying  said,  and  prayed  for  him  a  prayer, 

But  quick  he  vanished  in  the  throngs  and  rueful  tumults  there. 

Oh,  ye  ancestral  kingly  shades,  the  Cymbri,  Saxon,  Gaul, 

Mourn  for  the  towering  thrones  you  reared  to  crush  your  race, — and  fall  1 

Mourn  for  the  Mighty  Arm  that  smote  your  majesty,  and  threw 

Your  idle  splendor  to  the  winds  at  that  august  Yendue  1 

A  venerable  patriarch  arose  as  Auctioneer, 

And,  though  so  aged,  slill  his  voice  could  make  all  nations  hear. 

"Tis  said  he  is  the  veteran  that  first  began  his  trade 

When  sang  the  morning  stars  for  joy,  and  this  great  globe  was  made ; 

And  one  could  never  doubt  at  all,  he  seemed  so  hale  and  well, 

That  he  will  live  as  long  as  there  is  aught  on  earth  to  sell ! 

Upon  the  shattered  parapet  of  some  old  tower  he  sprang, 

And,  planting  his  red  signal  there,  his  thundering  call  outrang : 

Ye  multitudes  give  ear  to  me,  this  merchandise  survey ; 

What  bargains  thes.e  for  king  and  clown,  what  fortunes  here  to-day ! 

Oppression  is  all  bankrupt  now,  and  despot  sway  is  done, 

For,  in  the  chancery  above,  lo,  freedom's  plea  hath  won; 

The  famished  world  has  payment  claimed  of  its  most  rightful  debt, 

And  sheriff1  Revolution  hence  has  palaces — "To  Let!" 

All  idle  pomp,  all  princely  state,  all  signs  of  royal  rule 

Are  going,  going,  now !  for  man  has  spurned  the  kingly  school ; 

And  the  stern  lessons  he  has  learned  through  many  a  weary  page, 

Matured  to  mighty  deeds,  have  oped  a  grand  Fraternal  Age ! 

A  tarnished  bauble  in  his  hand  then  lifted  he  on  high, 

And  cried.  Ye  crownless  potentates,  ye  powerless  princes  buy  1 

'Tis  somewhat  faded,  it  is  true,  but  still  it  is  a  crown, 

I'll  throw  the  iron  sceptre  in — 'tis  going,  going — down ! 

And  here,  the  remnant  of  a  Throne — Ye  sovereigns  of  the  soil, 

Buy  now  the  monster  that  devoured  the  products  of  your  toil  1 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  365 

Once  it  was  bright  "with  burnished  gold,  with  quaint  devices  graced, 
But  long  the  lustre  has  beeu  dimmed,  each  emblem  long  defaced ; 
See  Justice  bearing  broken  scales ;  Honor  and  Truth  seem  dead, 

Power  has  lost  his  thunderbolts ;  Mercy  and  Hope  have  fled ! 

Ho\v  much  the  antiquated  Throne?  who'll  buy  the  regal  seat? 

"What  bliss  to  sit  there  and  suppose  an  empire  at  your  feet. 

Ah,  could  they  speak,  whose  once  it  was  august  thereon  to  reign, 

What  desperate  battle  would  they  bid  for  this  old  Might  again. 

I  cannot  dwell,  it  must  be  sold,  who  makes  it  now  his  own? 

Once,  twice,  the  last,  'tis  going,  gone ! — here,  serf,  ascend  your  throne  1 

Then  at  his  hand  a  massive  coil  of  ponderous  chains  I  saw ; 

A  sign  that  men  would  nevermore  the  car  of  bondage  draw. 

Here,  here  !  again  he  cried  aloud,  ye  kingdoms  in  decay, 

Buy  now  a  girdle  for  your  realms,  and  hold  them  to  your  sway. 

What  hopeless  thraldom  for  a  world  might  these  strong  bands  secure ; 

So  potent  to  subdue  the  great,  and  crush  the  rebel  poor. 

;irs  listen  e'er  too  late,  for  soon  shall  all  men  hear 
The  final  word  to  sell  these  chains  to  some  brave  buyer  here. 

Is  there  no  Alexander  now  would  grasp  the  globe  again, 
Ere  my  reluctant  arm  descend,  and  you  lament  in  vain? 
All  going — going ! — At  the  word  the  listless  throng  awoke, 
And  down  irrevocably  came  the  long  impending  stroke ! 
But  lo,  the  old  corroded  links,  drawn  clanking  up  to  sight, 
Fell  piecemeal  at  the  blow  to  earth — no  more  to  re-unite ! 

Then  burst  one  thundenng  peal  of  joy  from  all  the  gathered  host, 
Till  mountain  shouted  to  the  sea,  and  coast  replied  to  coast ! 
The  woe-worn  earth,  so  hopeful  long,  for  that  ecstatic  time, 
Put  on  again  her  Eden  robes  in  every  happy  clime, 
And  down  the  sky  a  glorious  Zone  the  nations  saw  descend, 
Expanding  o'er  remotest  hills,  where  human  homes  extend, 
Till  firm,  within  its  glittering  verge  it  shut  the  world's  wide  span, 
And  bound  by  lasting  CHRISTIAN  LOVE,  the  heart  of  man  to  man. 


THE  STORir-SHIP.— WASHINGTON  IBVINO. 

IN  the  g«>M;-:i  ;i;re  of  the  province  of  the  New  Netherlands, 
when  under  the  sway  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller,  otherwise  called 
the  Doubter,  the  people  of  the  Manhattoes  were  alarmed  one 
sultry  afternoon,  just  about  the  time  of  the  summer  solstice,  by 
a  tremendous  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning.  The  rain  fell 
in  such  torrents  as  absolutely  to  spatter  up  and  smoke  along 
the  ground.  It  sceim-d  a-  if  the  thunder  rattled  and  rolled 
over  the  very  roofs  of  the  LDUKCS;  the  lightning  was  seen  to 


366  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

play  about  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  and  to  strive  three 
times,  in  vain,  to  strike  its  weathercock.  Garret  Van  Home's 
new  chimney  was  split  almost  from  top  to  bottom ;  and  Doffue 
Mildeberger  was  struck  speechless  from  his  bald-faced  mare,  just 
as  he  was  riding  into  town.  In  a  word,  it  was  one  of  those  un- 
paralleled storms  which  only  happen  once  within  the  memory  of 
that  venerable  personage,  known  in  all  towns  by  the  appellation 
of  "  the  oldest  inhabitant." 

Great  was  the  terror  of  the  good  old  women  of  the  Man- 
hattoes.  They  gathered  their  children  together,  and  took  ref- 
uge in  the  cellars,  after  having  hung  a  shoe  on  the  iron  point 
of  every  bed-post,  lest  it  should  attract  the  lightning.  At 
length  the  storm  abated ;  the  thunder  sank  into  a  growl ;  and 
the  setting  sun,  breaking  from  under  the  fringed  borders  of  the 
clouds,  made  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  to  gleam  like  a  sea  of 
molten  gold. 

The  word  was  given  from  the  fort  that  a  ship  was  standing 
up  the  bay.  It  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  street  to 
street,  and  soon  put  the  little  capital  in  a  bustle.  The  arrival 
of  a  ship,  in  those  early  times  of  the  settlement,  was  an  event 
of  vast  importance  to  the  inhabitants.  It  brought  them  news 
from  the  old  world,  from  the  land  of  their  birth,  from  which 
they  were  so  completely  severed :  to  the  yearly  ship,  too,  they 
looked  for  their  supply  of  luxuries,  of  finery,  of  comforts,  and 
almost  of  necessaries.  The  good  vrouw  could  not  have  her  new 
cap  nor  new  gown  until  the  arrival  of  the  ship ;  the  artist  waited 
for  it  for  his  tools,  the  burgomaster  for  his  pipe  and  his  supply 
of  Hollands,  the  schoolboy  for  his  top  and  marbles,  and  the  lordly 
landholder  for  the  bricks  with  which  he  was  to  build  his  new 
mansion.  Thus  every  one,  rich  and  poor,  great  and  small,  looked 
out  for  the  arrival  of  the  ship.  It  was  the  great  yearly  event  of 
the  town  of  New  Amsterdam ;  and  from  one  end  of  the  year  to 
the  other,  the  ship — the  ship — the  ship — was  the  continual 
topic  of  conversation. 

The  news  from  the  fort,  therefore,  brought  all  the  populace 
down  to  the  battery,  to  behold  the  wished-for  sight.  It  was 
not  exactly  the  time  when  she  had  been  expected  to  arrive,  and 
the  circumstance  was  a  matter  of  some  speculation.  Many  were 
the  groups  collected  about  the  battery.  Here  and  there  might 
be  seen  a  burgomaster,  of  slow  and  pompous  gravity,  giving  his 
opinion  with  great  confidence  to  a  crowd  of  old  women  and  idle 
boys.  At  another  place  was  a  knot  of  old  weather-beaten  fel- 
lows who  had  been  seamen  or  fishermen  in  their  times,  and 


THK    LAI 'IKS'  HEADER.  gg7 

were  great  authorities  on  sucli  occasions;  these  gave  different 
opinions,  and  caused  great  disputes  among  their  several  adher- 
ents :  but  the  man  most  looked  up  to,  and  followed  and  watched 
l»y  the  crowd  was  Hans  Van  Pelt,  an  old  Dutch  sea  captain  re- 
tiivd  from  service,  the  nautical  oracle  of  the  place.  He  recon- 
noitred the  ship  through  an  ancient  telescope,  covered  with 
tarrv  canvas,  hummed  a  Dutch  tune  to  himself,  and  said 
nothing.  A  hum,  however,  from  Hans  Van  Pelt,  had  always 
more  w fight  with  the  public  than  a  speech  from  another  man. 

In  the  meantime  the  ship  became  more  distinct  to  the  naked 
eye  :  she  was  a  stout,  round,  Dutch-built  vessel,  with  high  bow 
and  poop,  and  bearing  Dutch  colors.  The  evening  sun  gilded 
her  bellying  canvas,  as  she  came  riding  over  the  long  waving 
billows.  The  sentinel,  who  had  given  notice  of  her  approach, 
declared,  that  he  first  got  sight  of  her  when  she  was  in  the 
centre  of  the  bay;  and  that  she  broke  suddenly  on  his  sight, 
just  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  black  thunder- 
cloud. The  bystanders  looked  at  Hans  Van  Pelt,  to  see  what 
>uld  >ay  to  this  report:  IlansVan  Pelt  screwed  his  mouth 
closer  together  and  said  nothing;  upon  which  some  shook  their 
heads,  and  others  shniggi-d  their  shoulders. 

The  ship  was  now  repeatedly  hailed,  but  made  no  reply,  and 
passing  l>\  the  fort,  stood  on  up  the  Hudson.  A  gun  was 
brought  to  bear  on  her,  and  with  some  difficulty,  loaded  and 
fired  by  Hans  Van  Pelt,  the  garrison  not  being  expert  in  artil- 
lery. The  shot  seemed  absolutely  to  pass  through  the  ship,  and 
to  skip  along  the  water  on  the  other  side,  but  no  notice  was  taken 
of  it !  What  was  strange,  she  had  all  her  sails  set,  and  sailed 
right  against  wind  and  tide,  which  were  both  down  the  river. 
Upon  this  Hai;s  Van  1 V It,  who  was  likewise  harbor-master,  or- 
dered his  boat,  and  set  off  to  board  her ;  but  after  rowing  two 
or  three  hours,  he  returned  without  success.  Sometimes  he 
would  get  within  one  or  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and  then, 
in  a  twinkling,  she  would  be  half  a  mile  off.  Some  said  it  was 
because  his  oarsmen,  who  were  rather  pursy  and  short-winded, 
stopped  every  now  and  then  to  take  breath,  and  spit  on  their 
hands ;  but  this  it  is  probable  was  a  mere  scandal.  He  got 
near  enough,  however,  to  sec  the  crew ;  who  were  all  dressed  in 
the  Dutch  style,  the  officers  in  doublets  and  high  hats  and 
feathers ;  not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  one  on  board  ;  they 
stood  as  motionless  as  so  many  statues,  and  the  ship  seemed  as 
if  left  to  her  own  government.  Thus  she  kept  on,  away  up  the 
river,  lessening  and  lessening  in  the  evening  sunshine,  until  she 


368  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

faded  from  sight,  like  a  little  white  cloud  melting  away  in  the 
summer  sky. 

The  appearance  of  this  ship  threw  the  governor  into  one  of 
the  deepest  doubts  that  ever  beset  him  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  administration.  Fears  were  entertained  for  the  security  of 
the  infant  settlements  on  the  river,  lest  this  might  be  an  enemy's 
ship  in  disguise,  sent  to  take  possession.  The  governor  called 
together  his  council  repeatedly  to  assist  him  with  their  conjec- 
tures. He  sat  in  his  chair  of  state,  built  of  timber  from  the 
sacred  forest  of  the  Hague,  smoking  his  long  jasmin  pipe,  and 
listening  to  all  that  his  counsellors  had  to  say  on  a  subject 
about  which  they  knew  nothing ;  but  in  spite  of  all  the  conjec- 
turing of  the  sagest  and  oldest  heads,  the  governor  still  con- 
tinued to  doubt. 

Messengers  were  despatched  to  different  places  on  the  river; 
but  they  returned  without  any  tidings — the  ship  had  made  no 
port.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week  elapsed,  but  she 
never  returned  down  the  Hudson.  As,  however,  the  council 
seemed  solicitous  for  intelligence,  they  had  it  in  abundance. 
The  captains  of  the  sloops  seldom  arrived  without  bringing 
some  report  of  having  seen  the  strange  ship  at  different  parts 
of  the  river ;  sometimes  near  the  Palisadoes,  sometimes  off 
Croton  Point,  and  sometimes  in  the  Highlands;  but  she  never 
was  reported  as  having  been  seen  above  the  Highlands.  The 
crews  of  the  sloops,  it  is  true,  generally  differed  among  them- 
selves in  their  accounts  of  these  apparitions ;  but  that  may 
have  arisen  from  the  uncertain  situations  in  which  they  saw 
her.  Sometimes  it  was  by  tbe  flashes  of  the  thunder-storm 
lighting  up  a  pitchy  night,  and  giving  glimpses  of  her  careering 
across  Tappaan  Zee,  or  the  wide  waste  of  Haverstraw  Bay. 
At  one  moment  she  would  appear  close  upon  them,  as  if  likely 
to  run  them  down,  and  would  throw  them  into  great  bustle 
and  alarm;  but  the  next  flash  would  show  her  far  off,  always 
sailing  against  the  wind.  Sometimes,  in  quiet  moonlight 
nights,  she  would  be  seen  under  some  high  bluff  of  the  High- 
lands, all  in  deep  shadow,  excepting  her  topsails  glittering  in 
the  moonbeams ;  by  the  time,  however,  that  the  voyagers 
reached  the  place,  no  ship  was  to  be  seen;  and  when  they  had 
passed  on  for  some  distance,  and  looked  back,  behold  !  there 
she  was  again,  with  her  top-sails  in  the  moonshine!  Her  ap- 
pearance was  always  just  after,  or  just  before,  or  just  in  the 
midst  of  unruly  weather ;  and  she  was  known  among  the 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  369 

skippers  and  voyagers  of  the  Hudson  by  the  name  of  "the 
storm-ship." 

These  reports  perplexed  the  governor  and  his  council  more 
than  ever,  and  it  would  be  endless  to  repeat  the  conjectures  and 
opinions  uttered  on  the  subject.  Some  quoted  cases  in  point, 
of  ships  seen  off  the  coast  of  New  England,  navigated  by 
witches  and  goblins.  Old  Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  had  been  more 
tli an  once  to  the  Dutch  colony  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  in- 
sisted that  this  must  be  the  Flying  Dutchman,  which  had  so 
long  haunted  Table  Bay,  but  being  unable  to  make  port,  had 
now  sought  another  harbor.  Others  suggested,  that  if  it  really 
I  supernatural  apparition,  as  there  was  every  natural  rea- 
son to  helicve,  it  might  be  Hendrick  Hudson,  and  his  crew  of 
the  Halfmoon,  who,  it  was  well  known,  had  once  run  aground 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  river,  in  seeking  a  north-west  passage 
to  China.  This  opinion  had  very  little  weight  with  the 
governor,  but  it  passed  current  out  of  doors,  for,  indeed,  it  had 
uhvadv  been  reported  that  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew 
haunted  the  Kaatskill  Mountain;  and  it  appeared  very  reason- 
able to  suppose,  that  his  ship  might  infest  the  river  where  the 
\va<  baffled,  or  that  it  might  bear  the  shadowy  crew 
to  their  periodical  revels  in  the  mountain. 

Other  events  occurred  to  occupy  the  thoughts  and  doubts  of 
the  sage  Wouter  and  his  council,  and  the  storm-ship  ceased  to 
be  a  subject  of  deliberation  at  the  board.  It  continued,  how- 
ji  matter  of  popular  belief,  and  marvellous  anecdote 
through  the  whole  time  of  the  Dutch  government,  and  particu- 
larly just  before  the  capture  of  New  Amsterdam,  and  the  sub- 
jugation of  the  province  by  the  English  squadron.  About  that 
'ime  the  storm-ship  was  repeatedly  seen  in  the  Tappaan  Zee, 
and  about  Wee  hawk,  and  even  down  as  far  as  Hoboken,  and  her 
appearance  was  supposed  to  be  ominous  of  the  approaching 
squall  in  public  affairs,  and  the  downfall  of  Dutch  domination. 

Since  that  time  we  have  no  authentic  accounts  of  her,  though 

-aid  she  still  haunts  the  Highlands,  and  cruises  about  Point- 

no-point.      People    who  live  along  the  river  insist  that  they 

sometimes  see  tar  in  summer  moonlight,  and  that  in  a  deep, 

still  midnight,  they  have  heard  the   chant  of  her  crew,  as  if 

hc-aving  the  l«.ad  ;  'hut  sights  and  sounds  are  so  deceptive  along 

the  mountainous  shores,  and  about  the  wide  bays  and  long 

lea  of  this  great  river,  that  I  confess  I  have  very  strong 

doubts  upon  the  subject. 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  strange  things  have  been  seen 
24 


370  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

in  these  highlands  in  storms,  which  are  considered  as  connect- 
ed with  the  old  story  of  the  ship.  The  captains  of  the  river 
craft  talk  of  a  little  bulbous-bottomed  Dutch  goblin,  in  trunk 
hose  and  sugar-loafed  hat,  with  a  speaking  trumpet  in  his 
hand,  which  they  say  keeps  the  Dunderberg.  They  declare 
that  they  have  heard  him,  in  stormy  weather,  in  the  midst  of 
the  turmoil,  giving  orders  in  low  Dutch,  for  the  piping  up  of  a 
fresh  gust  of  wind,  or  the  rattling  off  of  another  thunder-clap. 
That  sometimes  he  has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a  crew  of  lit- 
tle imps,  in  broad  clothes  and  short  doublets/ tumbling  head 
over  heels  in  the  rack  and  mist,  and  playing  a  thousand  gam- 
bols in  the  air,  or  buzzing  like  a  swarm  of  flies  about  Antony's 
nose ;  and  that,  at  such  times,  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  storm 
was  always  greatest.  One  time  a  sloop,  in  passing  by  the 
Dunderberg,  was  overtaken  by  a  thunder-gust,  that  came 
scouring  round  the  mountain,  and  seemed  to  burst  just  over  the 
vessel.  Though  tight  and  well  ballasted,  she  labored  dread- 
fully, and  the  water  came  over  the  gunwale.  All  the  crew 
were  amazed,  when  it  was  discovered  that  there  was  a  little 
white  sugar-loaf  hat  on  the  mast  head,  known  at  once  to  be 
the  hat  of  the  Heer  of  the  Dunderberg.  Nobody,  however, 
dared  to  climb  to  the  mast-head,  and  get  rid  of  this  terrible 
hat.  The  sloop  continued  laboring  and  rocking,  as  if  she 
would  have  rolled  her  mast  overboard,  and  seemed  in  continual 
danger  either  of  upsetting,  or  of  running  on  shore.  In  this 
way  she  drove  quite  through  the  Highlands,  until  she  had 
passed  Pollopol's  Island,  where,  it  is  said,  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
Dunderberg  potentate  ceases.  No  sooner  had  she  passed  this 
bourne,  than  the  little  hat  spun  up  into  the  air,  like  a  top, 
whirled  up  all  the  clouds  into  a  vortex,  and  hurried  them  back 
to  the  summit  of  the  Dunderberg,  while  the  sloop  righted  her- 
self, and  sailed  on  as  quietly  as  if  in  a  mill-pond.  Nothing 
saved  her  from  utter  wreck,  but  the  fortunate  circumstance  of 
having  a  horse-shoe  nailed  against  the  mast,  a  wise  precaution 
against  evil  spirits,  since  adopted  by  all  the  Dutch  captains  that 
navigate  this  haunted  river. 

There  is  another  story  told  of  this  foul-weather  urchin,  by 
Skipper  Daniel  Ouslesticker,  of  Fishkill,  who  was  never  known 
to  tell  a  lie.  He  declared  that,  in  a  severe  squall,  he  saw  him 
seated  astride  of  his  bowsprit,  riding  the  sloop  ashore,  full  butt 
against  Antony's  nose,  and  that  he  was  exorcised  by  Dominie 
Van  Gieson,  of  Esopus,  who  happened  to  be  on  board,  and  who 
sang  the  hymn  of  St.  Nicholas,  whereupon  the  goblin  threw 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  371 

himself  up  in  the  air  like  a  ball,  and  went  off  in  a  whirlwind, 
carrying  away  with  him  the  nightcap  of  the  Dominie's  wife, 
which  was  discovered  the  next  Sunday  morning  hanging  on 
the  weathercock  of  Esopus  church  steeple,  at  least  forty  miles 
off.  Several  events  of  this  kind  having  taken  place,  the  regu- 
lar skippers  of  the  river,  for  a  long  time,  did  not  venture  to 
pass  the  Dunderberg  without  lowering  their  peaks,  out  of 
homage  to  the  Heer  of  the  mountain,  and  it  was  observed  that 
all  such  as  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  were  suffered  to  pass 
unmolested. 

"  Such,"  said  Antony  Vander  Heyden,  "  are  a  few  of  the 
stories  written  down  by  Selyne  the  poet,  concerning  this  storm- 
ship  ;  which  ho  affirms  to  have  brought  a  crew  of  mischievous 
imps  into  the  province,  from  some  old  ghost-ridden  country  of 
Europe.  I  could  give  you  a  host  more,  if  necessary ;  for  all 
the  accidents  that  so  often  befall  the  river  craft  in  the  Highlands 
are  said  to  be  tricks  played  off  by  these  imps  of  the  Dunder- 
berg ;  but  I  see  that  you  are  nodding,  so  let  us  turn  in  for  the 
night," 


DESCRIPTION  OP  THE  CHASE.— JAMES  SHKRIDAN  KNOWLES. 

WILDRAKE  and  CONSTANCE. 

Wild.  Kind  lady,  I  attend  your  fair  commands. 

Con.  Worthy  sir, 

Souls  attract  souls,  when  they're  of  kindred  vein. 
The  life  that  you  love,  I  love.     "Well  I  know, 
'Mongst  those  who  breast  the  feats  of  the  bold  chase, 
You  stand  without  a  peer ;  and  for  myself, 
I  dare  avow,  'mong  such  none  follows  them 
With  heartier  glee  than  I  do. 

1 1 '/A/.  Churl  were  he 
That  would  gainsay  you,  madam ! 

Con.  \courtesying]  What  delight 
To  back  the  flying  steed,  that  challenges 
The  wind  for  speed!— seems  native  more  of  air 
Than  earth ! — whose  burden  only  lends  him  fire! — 
Whoso  soul,  in  his  task,  turns  labor  into  sport! 
Who  makes  your  pastime  his !     I  sit  him  now  I 
He  takes  away  my  breath! — He  makes  me  reel! 
I  touch  not  earth — I  see  not — hear  not — All 
la  ecstacy  of  motion ! 

Wild.  You  are  used, 
I  see,  to  the  chase. 


372  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Con.  I  am,  Sir!     Then  the  leap! 
To  see  the  saucy  barrier,  and  know 
The  mettle  that  can  clear  it.     Then  your  time 
To  prove  you  master  of  the  manage.     Now 
You  keep  him  well  together  for  a  space, 
Both  horse  and  rider  braced  as  you  were  one, 
Scanning  the  distance — then  you  give  him  rein, 
And  let  him  fly  at  it,  and  o'er  he  goes, 
Light  as  a  bird  on  wing. 

Wild.  Twere  a  bold  leap, 
I  see,  that  turned  you,  madam. 

Con.  [couriesying]  Sir,  you're  good ! 
And  then  the  hounds,  sir !     Nothing  I  admire 
Beyond  the  running  of  the  well-trained  pack. 
The  training 's  everything !     Keen  on  the  scent ! 
At  fault  none  losing  heart ! — but  all  at  work  ! 
None  leaving  his  task  to  another ! — answering 
The  watchful  huntsman's  caution,  check,  or  cheer, 
As  steed  his  rider's  rein !     Away  they  go ! 
How  close  they  keep  together ! — What  a  pack ! 
Nor  turn,  nor  ditch,  nor  stream  divides  them — aa 
They  moved  with  one  intelligence,  act,  will ! 
And  then  the  concert  they  keep  up ! — enough 
To  make  one  tenant  of  the  merry  wood, 
To  list  their  jocund  music ! 

Wild.  You  describe 
The  huntsman's  pastime  to  the  life! 

Con.  I  love  it! 

To  wood  and  glen,  hamlet  and  town,  it  is 
A  laughing  holiday! — not  a  hill-top 
But's  then  alive! — Footmen  with  horsemen  Vie, 
All  earth 's  astir,  roused  with  the  revelry 
Of  vigor,  health  and  joy !     Cheer  awakes  cheer, 
While  Echo's  mimic  tongue  that  never  tires, 
Keeps  up  the  hearty  din !     Each  face  is  then 
Its  neighbor's  glass — where  gladness  sees  itself, 
And,  at  the  bright  reflection  grows  more  glad ! 
Breaks  into  tenfold  mirth  ! — laughs  like  a  child! 
Would  make  a  gift  of  its  heart,  it  is  so  free ! 
Would  scarce  accept  a  kingdom,  'tis  so  rich  ! 
Shakes  hands  with  all,  and  vows  it  never  knew 
That  life  was  life  before  ! 

Wild.  Nay,  every  way 
You  do  fair  justice,  lady,  to  the  chase. 


Till-:  LADIES'  READER.  373 


THE  LAST  PLAGUE  OF  EGYPT—  REV.  A.  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

Deep  night  o'er  thy  waters,  thou  dark-rolling  Nile, 
And  the  Hebrew  sleeps  trembling,  his  lord  with  a  smile, 
For  a  voice  comes  in  dreams  to  the  children  of  God : 
But  the  proud  have  no  whisper  that  Death  is  abroad! 

So,  nestled  in  rocks,  when  the  whirlwind  is  nigh, 
They  hear  its  far  coming — the  birds  of  the  sky  I 
While  trees  it  must  shiver  in  leaf  and  in  form, 
Are  hush  as  the  stillness  that  heralds  the  storm. 

And  the  Memphian,  at  midnight,  lay  smiling  and  pleased, 
His  sin  all  unshriven,  his  God  unappeas'd, 
Till  o'er  his  dark  slumbers  chill  shadows  were  cuifd, 
Ami  the  soul  of  the  dreamer  was  far  from  the  world. 

And  he  lay  in  the  coils  of  the  death-spirit,  mute, 

With  a  seal  on  his  lips,  like  the  blast  in  the  fruit; 

And  he  seem'd  as  when  hoar  frost  hath  stifien'd  the  flower/ 

'Twas  the  blight  of  the  Lord,  'twas  the  touch  of  his  power. 

But  still  was  the  starlight,  while  shrouded  and  hid, 

lirooded  o'er  palace,  and  cold  pyramid; 
No  voice  on  the  midnight ;  no  larum  of  wrath ; 
No  sound  of  the  whirlwind — but  only  its  path. 

And  a  cry  was  in  Egypt,  when  rose  the  red  morn, 
For  a  thousand  pale  mothers  bewail'd  their  first  born ; 
And  Memnon's  sweet  music  that  greeted  the  Sun 
Was  lost  in  the  moan  of  a  nation  undone. 

And  shriok'd  the  young  wife  o'er  the  child  of  her  pain, 
That  never  should  breathe  on  her  bosom  again. 
And  breasts  that  were  warm  with  their  nursling  before; 
But  heaved,  in  her  grief,  for  the  boy  that  she  bore. 

And  the  bride  shrunk  aghast,  like  the  death-stricken  dove, 
When  she  woke  in  the  cold  frozen  lock  of  her  love; 
And  a  groan  for  the  noble,  the  lovely  outpour'd, 
A  wail  for  tlie  battle  they  waged  with  the  Lord. 

And  they  seem'd  like  the  willows,  that,  left  on  the  steep, 
Are  bent  o'er  the  wreck  of  the  forest  to  cveep, 
Or  lilies  that  dripping,  and  drooping  of  form, 
Shed  tears  o'er  the  broken,  the  spoil  of  the  storm. 

Ye  join  not  the  wailing,  ye  dwellers  of  Zan! 
I  lath  the  death-angel  spared  yc.  that,  smote  as  ho  ran? 
Oh,  the  blood-sprinkled  lintel  hath  stayed  his  proud  reign, 
And  watch'd  at  your  threshold  the  Lamb  that  was  slain. 


;,'74  THE   LADIES'  READER. 


BBTURN  OF  THE  WEPT  OP  WISH-TON-WISH.-JAMEs  FENIMORE  COOPEB. 

The  movement  of  the  timid  hare  is  scarce  more  hurried,  or 
more  undecided,  than  that  of  the  creature  who  now  suddenly 
presented  herself  to  the  warriors.  It  was  apparent,  by  the 
hesitating  and  half-retreating  step  that  succeeded  the  light 
bound  with  which  she  came  in  view,  that  she  dreaded  to  ad- 
vance, while  she  knew  not  how  far  it  might  be  proper  to  re- 
tire. For  the  first  moment,  she  stood  in  a  suspended  and 
doubting  posture,  such  as  one  might  suppose  a  creature  of  mist 
would  assume  ere  it  vanished,  and  then  meeting  the  eye  of  Co- 
nanchet,  the  uplifted  foot  retouched  the  earth,  and  her  whole 
form  sunk  into  the  modest  and  shrinking  attitude  of  an  Indian 
girl,  who  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  Sachem  of  her  tribe.  As 
this  female  is  to  enact  no  mean  part  in  that  which  follows,  the 
reader  may  be  thankful  for  a  more  minute  description  of  her 
person. 

The  age  of  the  stranger  was  under  twenty.  In  form  she 
rose  above  the  usual  stature  of  an  Indian  maid,  though  the 
proportions  of  her  person  were  as  light  and  buoyant  as  at  all 
comported  with  the  fullness  that  properly  belonged  to  her 
years.  The  limbs,  seen  below  the  folds  of  a  short  kirtle  of  bright 
scarlet  cloth,  were  just  and  tapering,  even  to  the  nicest  propor- 
tions of  classic  beauty ;  and  never  did  foot  of  higher  instep, 
and  softer  roundness,  grace  a  feathered  moccason.  Though  the 
person,  from  the  neck  to  the  knees,  was  hid  by  a  tightly-fitting 
vest  of  calico  and  the  short  kirtle  named,  enough  of  the  shape 
was  visible  to  betray  outlines  that  had  never  been  injured, 
either  by  the  mistaken  devices  of  art  or  by  the  baneful  effects 
of  toil.  The  skin  was  only  visible  at  the  hands,  face,  and  neck. 
Its  lustre  having  been  a  little  dimmed  by  exposure,  a  rich,  rosy 
tint  had  usurped  the  natural  brightness  of  a  complexion  that 
had  once  been  fair  even  to  brilliancy.  The  eye  was  full,  sweet, 
and  of  a  blue  that  emulated  the  sky  of  evening;  the  brows, 
soft  and  arched ;  the  nose,  straight,  delicate,  and  slightly  Gre- 
cian ;  the  forehead,  fuller  than  that  which  properly  belonged  to 
ii  girl  of  the  Narragansetts,  but  regular,  delicate,  and  polished ; 
and  the  hair,  instead  of  dropping  in  long  straight  tresses  of  jet 
black,  broke  out  of  the  restraints  of  a  band  of  beaded  wam- 
pum, in  ringlets  of  golden  yellow. 

The   peculiarities  that  distinguished  this   female  from  the 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  3*75 

others  of  her  tribe,  were  not  confined  alone  to  the  indelible 
marks  of  nature.  Her  step  was  more  elastic;  her  gait  more 
erect  and  graceful ;  her  foot  less  inwardly  inclined,  and  her 
whole  movements  freer  and  more  decided  than  those  of  a  race 
doomed  from  infancy  to  subjection  and  labor.  Though  orna- 
mented by  some  of  the  prized  inventions  of  the  hated  raco 
to  which  she  evidently  owed  her  birth,  she  had  the  wild  and 
timid  look  of  those  with  whom  she  had  grown  into  woman- 
hood. Her  beauty  would  have  been  remarkable  in  any  re- 
gion of  the  earth,  while  the  play  of  muscle,  the  ingenuous 
braining  of  the  eye,  and  the  freedom  of  limb  and  action,  were 
such  as  seldom  pass  beyond  the  years  of  childhood,  among 
people  who,  in  attempting  to  improve,  so  often  mar  the  works 
of  nature. 

11  Why  has  Conanchet  sent  for  a  woman  from  the  woods  ?" 
"  Narra-mattah,  come  near  ;"  returned  the  young  chief, 
••hanging  the  deep  and  proud  tones  in  which  he  had  addressed 
hi*  restless  and  bold  companion  in  arms,  to  those  which  better 
suiu-d  the  gentle  car  for  which  his  words  were  intended.  "Fear 
ii<>t,  daughter  of  the  morning,  for  those  around  us  are  of  a  race 
women  at  the  council-fires.  Now  look,  with  an  open 
eye — is  there  anything  among  these  trees  that  scemeth  like  an 
;tnci(  lit  tradition?  Hast  ever  beheld  such  a  valley,  in  thy 
divaius  '.  1  lave  yonder  Pale-faces,  whom  the  tomahawks  of  my 
voting  men  spared,  been  led  before  thee  by  the  Great  Spirit,  in 
th..-  -lark  night  T 

The  t'einal"  listened,  in  deep  attention.  Her  gaze  was  wild 
and  uncertain,  and  yet  it  was  not  absolutely  without  gleamings 
•  •I'  a  half-reyiviii'j;  intelligence.  Until  that  moment,  she  had 
ioo  iniich  occupied  in  conjecturing  the  subject  of  her  visit 
lard  the  natural  objects  by  which  she  was  surrounded  : 
but  with  her  attention  thus  directly  turned  upon  them,  her  or- 
gan-; of  sight  embraced  each  and  all,  with  the  discrimination 
that  is  so  remarkable  in  those  whose  faculties  are  quickened  by 
danger  and  necessity.  Passing  from  side  to  side,  her  swift 
-•Jailers  ran  over  the  distant  hamlet,  with  its  little  fort;  the 
buildings  in  the  near  grounds;  the  soft  and  verdant  fields;  the 
fragrant  orchard,  beneath  whose  leafy  shades  she  stood,  and  the 
blackened  tower,  that  rose  in  its  centre,  like  some  gloomy  me- 
morial, placed  there  to  remind  the  spectator  not  to  trust  too 
1'ondlv  to  the  signs  of  peace  and  loveliness  that  reigned  around. 
Shak'ing  b:i<-k  the  ringlets  that  had  blown  about  her  temples, 


376  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

the  wondering  female  returned  thoughtfully  and  in  silence  to 
her  place. 

"  'Tis  a  village  of  the  Yengeese !"  she  said,  after  a  long  and 
expressive  pause.  "  A  Narragansett  woman  does  not  love  to 
look  at  the  lodges  of  the  hated  race." 

"  Listen. — Lies  have  never  entered  the  ears  of  Narra-mattah. 
My  tongue  hath  spoken  like  the  tongue  of  a  chief.  Thou  didst 
not  come  of  the  sumach,  but  of  the  snow.  This  hand  of  thine 
is  not  like  the  hands  of  the  women  of  ray  tribe ;  it  is  little, 
for  the  Great  Spirit  did  not  make  it  for  work ;  it  is  of  the  color 
of  the  sky  in  the  morning,  for  thy  fathers  were  born  near  the 
place  where  the  sun  rises.  Thy  blood  is  like  spring  water.  All 
this  thou  knovvest,  for  none  have  spoken  false  in  thy  ear. 
Speak — dost  thou  never  see  the  wigwam  of  thy  father?  Does 
not  his  voice  whisper  to  thee,  in  the  language  of  his  people  ?" 

The  female  stood  in  the  attitude  which  a  sibyl  might  be  sup- 
posed to  assume,  while  listening  to  the  occult  mandates  of  the 
mysterious  oracle,  every  faculty  entranced  and  attentive. 

"  Why  does  Conanchet  ask  these  questions  of  his  wife  ?  He 
knows  what  she  knows ;  he  sees  what  she  sees  ;  his  mind  is  her 
mind.  If  the  Great  Spirit  made  her  skin  of  a  different  color, 
he  made  her  heart  the  same.  Narra-mattah  will  not  listen  to 
the  lying  language  ;  she  shuts  her  ears,  for  there  is  deceit  in  its 
sounds.  She  tries  to  forget  it.  One  tongue  can  say  all  she 
wishes  to  speak  to  Conanchet;  why  should  she  look  back  in 
dreams,  when  a  great  chief  is  her  husband  ?" 

The  eye  of  the  warrior,  as  he  looked  upon  the  ingenuous 
and  confiding  face  of  the  speaker,  was  kind  to  fondness.  The 
firmness  had  passed  away,  and  in  its  place  was  left  the  winning 
softness  of  affection,  which,  as  it  belongs  to  nature,  is  seen,  at 
times,  in  the  expression  of  an  Indian's  eye,  as  strongly  as  it  is 
ever  known  to  sweeten  the  intercourse  of  a  more  polished  con- 
dition of  life. 

"  Girl,"  he  said  with  emphasis,  after  a  moment  of  thought, 
as  if  he  would  recall  her  and  himself  to  more  important  duties, 
"  this  is  a  war-path ;  all  on  it  are  men.  Thou  wast  like  the  pi- 
geon before  its  wing  opens,  when  I  brought  thec  from  the  nest; 
still  the  winds  of  many  winters  had  blown  upon  thee.  Dost 
never  think  of  the  warmth  and  of  the  food  of  the  lodge  in  which 
thou  hast  past  so  many  seasons  ?" 

"  The  wigwam  of  Conanchet  is  warm ;  no  woman  of  the 
tribe  hath  as  many  furs  as  Narra-mattah." 

"  He  is  a  great  hunter !  when  they  hear  his  moccason,  tho 


T11K    LADIES'  HEADER.  377 

I)«T(\ -i -rs  lie  down  to  be  killed  !  But  the  men  of  the  Pale-faces 
hold  the  plmv.  Docs  not  '  the  driven  snow'  think  of  those 
who  fenced  the  wigwam  of  her  father  from  the  cold,  or  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  Yengeese  live?" 

His  youthful  and  attentive  wife  seemed  to  reflect;  but  raising 
her  face,  with  an  expression  of  content  that  could  not  be  coun- 
'tcd,  she  shook  her  head  in  the  negative. 

"Does  she  never  see  a  fire  kindled  among  the  lodges,  or 
hear  the  whoops  of  the  warriors  as  they  break  into  a  settle- 
ment ?" 

"  Many  fires  have  been  kindled  before  her  eyes.  The  ashes 
of  the  NarrairaiiM-tt  town  .-ire  not  yet  cold." 

"Does  not  Narra-mattah  hear  her  father  speaking  to  the  God 
of  tin-  Yriiuvese?  Listen — he  is  asking  favor  for  his  child!" 

"The  Great  Spirit  of  the  Narragapsett  has  ears  for  his 
people." 

"But  I  hear  a  softer  voice!  'Tis  a  woman  of  the  Pale-faces 
among  her  children;  cannot  the  daughter  hear?" 

Xarra-mattali,  <>r  "the  driven  snow,"  laid  her  hand  lightly 
on  the  arm  of  the  chief,  and  she  looked  wistfully  and  long  into 
his  face,  without  an  answer.  The  gaze  seemed  to  deprecate 
tin- anger  that  might  be  awakened  by  what  she  was  about  to 

"  Chief  of  my  people,"  she  said,  encouraged  by  his  still  calm 
ami  genth;  brow  to  proceed,  "what  a  girl  of  the  clearings  sees 
in  her  dreams  shall  not  be  hid.  It  is  not  the  lodges  of  her 
race,  for  the  wigwam  of  her  husband  is  warmer.  It  is  not  the 
food  and  clothes  of  a  cunning  people,  for  who  is  richer  than 
the  wife  of  a  great  chief?  It  is  not  her  father  speaking  to 
their  Spirit,  for  there  is  none  stronger  than  Manitou.  Narra- 
mattah  has  forgotten  all :  she  does  not  wish  to  think  of  things 
like  these.  She  knows  how  to  hate  a  hungry  and  craving  race. 
But  she  sees  one  that  the  wives  of  the  Narragansetts  do  not 
see.  She  sees  a  woman  with  a  white  skin;  her  eyes  look 
softly  on  her  child  in  her  dreams ;  it  is  not  an  eye,  it  is  a 
tongue!  It  says,  what  does  the  wife  of  Conanchet  wish? — is 
she  cold  ?  here  are  furs — is  she  hungry  ?  here  is  venison—is 
she  tired  ?  the  arms  of  the  pale  woman  open,  that  an  Indian 
girl  may  sleep.  \Vhcn  there  is  silence  in  the  lodges,  when 
Conanchet  and  his  young  men  lie  down,  then  does  this  pale 
v,..]!ian  speak.  Sachem,  she  does  not  talk  of  the  battles  of  her 
people,  nor  of  the  scalps  that  her  warriors  have  taken,  nor  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  Pequots  and  Mohicans  fear  her  tribe. 


378  THE  LADIES'  READER, 

She  does  not  tell  how  a  young  Narragansett  should  obey  her 
husband,  nor  how  the  woman  must  keep  food  in  the  lodges  for 
the  hunters  that  are  wearied ;  her  tongue  useth  strange  words. 
It  names  a  mighty  and  just  Spirit ;  it  telleth  of  peace  and  not 
of  war ;  it  soundeth  as  one  talking  from  the  clouds ;  it  is  like 
the  falling  of  the  water  among  rocks.  Narra-mattah  loves  to 
listen,  for  the  words  seem  to  her  like  the  Wish-Ton-Wish, 
when  he  whistles  in  the  woods." 

Conanchet  had  fastened  a  look  of  deep  and  affectionate 
interest  on  the  wild  and  sweet  countenance  of  the  being  who 
stood  before  him.  She  had  spoken  in  that  attitude  of  earnest 
and  natural  eloquence  that  no  art  can  equal ;  and  when  she 
ceased,  he  laid  a  hand,  in  kind  but  melancholy  fondness,  on 
the  half-inclined  and  motionless  head,  as  he  answered : 

"  This  is  the  bird  of  night  singing  to  its  young  !  The  Great 
Spirit  of  thy  fathers  is  angry,  that  thou  livest  in  the  lodge  of  a 
Narragansett.  His  sight  is  too  cunning  to  be  cheated.  He 
knows  that  the  moccasin,  and  the  wampum,  and  the  robe  of 
fur  are  liars ;  he  sees  the  color  of  the  skin  beneath." 

"  Conanchet,  no !"  returned  the  female  hurriedly,  and  with 
a  decision  her  timidity  did  not  give  reason  to  expect.  "  He 
seeth  further  than  the  skin,  and  knoweth  the  color  of  the  mind. 
He  hath  forgotten  that  one  of  his  girls  is  missing." 

"  It  is  not  so.  The  eagle  of  my  people  was  taken  into  the 
lodges  of  the  pale  faces.  He  was  young,  and  they  taught  him 
to  sing  with  another  tongue.  The  colors  of  his  feathers  were 
changed,  and  they  thought  to  cheat  the  Manitou.  But  when 
the  door  was  open,  he  spread  his  wings  and  flew  back  to  his 
nest.  It  is  not  so.  What  hath  been  done  is  good,  and 
what  will  be  done  is  better.  Come,  there  is  a  straight  path 
before  us." 

Thus  saying,  Conanchet  motioned  to  his  wife  to  follow 
toward  the  group  of  captives.  The  foregoing  dialogue  had 
occurred  in  a  place  where  the  two  parties  were  partially  con- 
cealed from  each  other  by  the  ruin ;  but  as  the  distance  was  so 
trifling,  the  Sachem  and  his  companion  were  soon  confronted 
with  those  he  sought.  Leaving  his  wife  a  little  without  the 
circle,  Conanchet  advanced,  and  taking  the  unresisting  and 
lhalf-unconscious  Ruth  by  the  arm,  he  led  her  forward.  He 
placed  the  two  females  in  attitudes  where  each  might  look  the 
other  full  in  the  face.  Strong  emotion  struggled  in  a  coun- 
tenance, which,  in  spite  of  its  fierce  mask  of  war-paint,  could 
not  entirely  conceal  its  workings. 


THK  LADIES'  READER.  379 

"  Sec,"  he  said  in  English,  looking  earnestly  from  one  to  the 
other.  u  The  Good  Spirit  is  not  ashamed  of  his  work.  What 
lie  hath  done,  he  hath  done;  Xarragansett  nor  Yengeese  can 
alter  it.  This  is  the  white  bird  that  came  from  the  sea,"  he 
ail. led,  touching  the  shoulder  of  Ruth  lightly  with  a  finger, 
"and  this  the  young,  that  she  warmed  under  her  wing." 

Then,  folding  his  arms  on  his  naked  breast,  he  appeared  to 
'summon  his  energy,  lest,  in  the  scene  that  he  knew  must 
follow,  his  manhood  might  be  betrayed  into  some  act  un- 
worthy of  his  name. 

The  captives  were  necessarily  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the 
scene  which  they  had  just  witnessed.  So  many  strange  and 
>a\auv-l«>oking  t'Tins  were  constantly  passing  and  repassing 
before  their  eyes,  that  the  arrival  of  one  more  or  less  was  not 
likely  to  be  noted.  Until  she  heard  Conanchet  speak  in  her 
native  tongue,  Until  had  lent  no  attention  to  the  interview 
<'ii  him  and  his  wife.  But  the  figurative  language  and 
no  less  remarkable  action  of  the  Narragansett  had  the  effect  to 
arouse  her  suddenly,  and  in  the  most  exciting  manner,  from 
her  melancholy. 

No  child  of  tender  age  ever  unexpectedly  came  before  the 
eyes  of  Ruth  lleatheote,  without  painfully  recalling  the  image 
of  tin*  cherub  she  had  lost.  The  playful  voice  of  infancy  never 
surprised  her  ear,  without  the  sound  conveying  a  pang  to  the 
heart ;  nor  could  allusion,  ever  so  remote,  be  made  to  persons 
or  events  that  bore  resemblance  to  the  sad  incidents  of  her 
own  life,  without  quickening  the  never-dying  pulses  of  mater- 
nal ]<>\e.  \o  wonder,  then,  that  when  she  found  herself  in  the 
situation  and  under  the  circumstances  described,  nature  grew 
-•  within  her,  and  that  her  mind  caught  glimpses,  however 
dim  and  indistinct  they  might  be,  of  a  truth  that  the  reader 
•i! ready  anticipated.  Still,  a  certain  and  intelligible  clue 
was  wantin<j;.  Fam-y  had  ever  painted  her  child  in  the  inno- 
cence and  infancy  in  which  it  had  been  torn  from  her  arms; 
and  here,  while  there  was  so  much  to  correspond  with  reason- 
able expectation,  there  was  little  to  answer  to  the  long  and 
fondly  cherished  picture.  The  delusion,  if  so  holy  and  natural 
a  feeling  may  thus  be  termed,  had  been  too  deeply  seated  to 
be  dispossessed  at  a  glance.  Gazing  long,  earnestly,  and  with 
features  that  varied  with  every  changing  feeling,  she  held  the 
stranger  at  the  length  of  her  two  arms,  alike  unwilling  to 
release  her  hold,  or  to  admit  her  closer  to  a  heart  which  might 
rightfully  be  the  property  of  another. 


380  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

"Who  art  them?"  demanded  the  mother  in  a  voice  that  w-,s 
tremulous  with  the  emotions  of  that  sacred  character.  "  Speak, 
mysterious  and  lovely  being — who  art  thou  ?" 

Narra-mattah  had  turned  a  terrified  and  imploring  look  at  the 
immovable  and  calm  form  of  the  chief,  as  if  she  sought  protec- 
tion from  him  at  whose  hands  she  had  been  accustomed  to  re- 
ceive it.  But  a  different  sensation  took  possession  of  her  mind, 
when  she  heard  sounds  which  had  too  often  soothed  the  ear  of 
infancy,  ever  to  be  forgotten.  Struggling  ceased,  and  her  pliant 
form  assumed  the  attitude  of  intense  and  entranced  attention. 
Her  head  was  bent  aside,  as  if  the  ear  were  eager  to  drink  in  a 
repetition  of  the  tones,  while  her  bewildered  and  delighted  eye 
still  sought  the  countenance  of  her  husband. 

"  Vision  of  the  woods ! — wilt  thou  not  answer  ?"  continued 
Ruth.  "  If  there  is  reverence  for  the  Holy  One  of  Israel  in  thine 
heart,  answer,  that  I  may  know  thee !" 

"Hist!  Conanchet!"  murmured  the  wife,  over  whose  features 
the  glow  of  pleased  and  wild  surprise  continued  to  deepen. 
"  Come  near,  Sachem ;  the  Spirit  that  talketh  to  Narra-mattah 
in  her  dreams  is  nigh." 

"Woman  of  the  Yengeese !"  said  the  husband,  advancing 
with  dignity  to  the  spot,  "let  the  clouds  blow  from  thy  sight. 
Wife  of  a  Narragansett !  see  clearly.  The  Manitou  of  your 
race  speaks  strong.  He  telleth  a  mother  to  know  her  child  !" 

Ruth  could  hesitate  no  longer ;  neither  sound  nor  exclama- 
tion escaped  her,  but  as  she  strained  the  yielding  frame  of  her 
recovered  daughter  to  her  heart,  it  appeared  as  if  she  strove  to 
incorporate  the  two  bodies  into  one.  A  cry  of  pleasure  and 
astonishment  drew  all  around  her.  Then  came  the  evidence  of 
the  power  of  nature  when  strongly  awakened.  Age  and  youth 
alike  acknowledged  its  potency,  and  recent  alarms  were  over- 
looked in  the  pure  joy  of  such  a  moment.  The  spirit  of  even 
the  lofty-minded  Conanchet  was  shaken.  Raising  the  hand,  at 
whose  wrist  still  hung  the  bloody  tomahawk,  he  veiled  his  face, 
and,  turning  aside,  that  none  might  see  the  weakness  of  so  great 
a  warrior,  he  wept. 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  331 


AN  AUTUMN  LEAF.— JOHN  A.  Hows. 

To-day  there  is  a  purple  haze  o'er  all  the  landscape, 

And  the  distant  hills  are  covered  with  a  veil 

Of  warm  and  misty  blue,  which,  spreading 

Softly  to  the  upper  sky,  grows  warmer  still 

And  golden,  in  the  yellow  sunshine. 

In  the  woods,  a  mellow  radiance: 

As  in  a  church,  where  painted  windows 

Flood  the  air,  languid  and  rich  with  incense. 

Here  a  tall  and  many-tinted  maple 

Shines  like  some  great  east-window, 

Thick-set  with  pictured  Saints  and  Angels: 

There  a  slender  birch,  far  in  the  woods 

Lights  up  their  purple  dimness  like  a  lancet 

In  the  shadow  of  some  narrow  aisle. 

Through  the  trees  the  lazy  breathings  of  the 

wind  come  and  go,  laden  with  scents 
Of  orchards,  and  of  beehives,  of  forest  grapes 
And  autumn  flowers;  and,  most  of  all, 
Of  withered  autumn  leaves,  that  falling  with 
Faint  rustle,  lie  amid  the  ferns,  and  gem 
The  banks  of  grey  and  verdant  moss  with  brightest  hues. 
Beneath  the  hills,  the  lake  is  sleeping  in  the 
Midday  sun;  flashing  in  golden  ripples  here  and  there 
Where  wing  of  waterfowl,  and  leaping  lisli 
Startle  its  mirrored  rest;  while  in  its 
Bosom,  as  it  dreams,  it  bears  the  many- 
Colored  glories  of  the  autumn  woods 
That  looked  upon  it  from  the  glowing  shore, 
When  first  the  frosty  morning  wind  called  up 
The  waves,  to  welcome  in  the  day  with  dances. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FIELD.-Joim  KKBLE. 

Sweet  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies, 

Bathed  in  soft  airs,  and  fed  with  dew, 
What  more  than  magic  in  you  lies, 

To  fill  the  heart's  fond  view  ? 
In  childhood's  sports,  companions  gay, 
In  sorrow,  on  life's  downward  way, 
How  soothing !  in  our  last  decay 
Memorials  prompt  and  true. 

Relics  ye  are  of  Eden's  bowers, 
As  pure,  as  fragrant,  and  as  fair, 

As  when  ye  crown'd  the  sunshine  hours 
Of  happy  wanderers  there. 


382  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Fall'n  all  beside — the  world  of  life, 
How  i§  it  staiu'd  with  fear  and  strife  I 
In  Reason's  world  what  storms  are  rife, 
What  passions  range  and  glare  I 

But  cheerful  and  unchanged  the  while 
Your  first  and  perfect  form  ye  show, 

The  same  that  won  Eve's  matron  smile 
In  the  world's  opening  glow. 

The  stars  of  heaven  a  course  are  taught 

Too  high  above  our  human  thought ; 

Ye  may  be  found  if  ye  are  sought, 
And  as  we  gaze,  we  know. 

Ye  dwell  beside  our  paths  and  homes, 

Our  paths  of  sin,  our  homes  of  sorrow, 
And  guilty  man,  where'er  he  roams, 
Your  innocent  mirth  may  borrow. 
The  birds  of  air  before  us  fleet, 
They  cannot  brook  our  shame  to  meet — 
But  we  may  taste  your  solace  sweet 
And  come  again  to-morrow. 

Ye  fearless  in  your  nests  abide — 
Nor  may  we  scorn,  too  proudly  wise, 

Your  silent  lessons,  undescried 
By  all  but  lowly  eyes  ; 

For  ye  could  draw  the  admiring  gaze 

Of  Him  who  worlds  and  hearts  surveys ; 

Your  order  wild,  your  fragrant  maze, 
He  taught  us  how  to  prize. 

Ye  felt  your  Maker's  smile  that  hour, 

As  when  He  paus'd  and  own'd  you  good; 

His  blessing  on  earth's  primal  bower, 
Ye  felt  it  all  renew'd. 

"What  care  ye  now,  if  winter's  storm 

Sweep  ruthless  o'er  each  silken  form  ? 

Christ's  blessing  at  your  heart  is  warm, 
Ye  fear  no  vexing  mood. 

Alas !  of  thousand  bosoms  kind, 

That  daily  court  you  and  caress, 
How  few  the  happy  secret  find 

Of  your  calm  loveliness  ! 
"  Live  for  to-day !  to-morrow's  light 
To-morrow's  cares  shall  bring  to  sight, 
Go  sleep  like  closing  flowers  at  night, 
And  Heaven  thy  morn  will  bless." 


THE    LADIES'  READER.  333 


THE  SABBATH  IX  NEW  ENGLAND.— Miss  SEDG\VICK. 

The  observance  of  the  Sabbath  began  with  the  Puritans,  as 
it  still  does  with  a  great  portion  of  their  descendants,  on  Sat- 
urday night.  At  the  going  down  of  the  sun  on  Saturday,  all 
temporal  affairs  were  suspended  ;  and  so  zealously  did  our 
fathers  maintain  the  letter,  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  the  law,  that, 
according  t<>  a  vulgar  tradition  in  Connecticut,  no  beer  was 
browed  in  the  latter  part  of  the  week,  lest  it  should  presume  to 
work  on  Sunday. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  tendency  of  the  age  is  to 
laxity  ;  and  so  rapidly  is  the  wholesome  strictness  of  primitive 
times  abating,  that,  should  some  antiquary,  fifty  years  hence,  in 
exploring  his  garret  rubbish,  chance  to  cast  his  eye  on  our 
humble  pages,  he  may  be  surprised  to  learn,  that,  even  now, 
tin-  Sabbath  is  observed,  in  the  interior  of  New  England,  with 
an  almost  Jin  laical  severity. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  an  uncommon  bustle  is  apparent. 
The  u'lvat  elass  of  procrastinators  are  hurrying  to  and  fro  to 
complete  tie  lagging  business  of  the  week.  The  good  moth- 
ers, like  IJurns'  matrons,  are  plying  the  needle,  making  "  auld 
dai-s  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new  ;"  while  the  domestics,  or 
help,  (we  prefer  the  national  descriptive  term),  are  wielding, 
with  might  and  main,  their  brooms  and  mops,  to  make  all  tidy 
for  the  sabbath. 

As  the  day  declines,  the  hum  of  labor  dies  away,  and  after 
the  sun  is  set,  perfect  stillness  reigns  in  every  well-ordered  house- 
hold, and  not  a  foot-fall  is  heard  in  the  village  street.  It  can- 
not be  denied,  that  even  the  most  scriptural,  missing  the  excite- 
ment of  their  ordinary  occupations,  anticipate  their  usual  bed 
time.  The  obvious  inference  from  this  fact  is  skillfully  avoided 
rtain  ingenious  reasoners,  who  allege,  that  the  constitution 

•  •riginally  so  organized  as  to  require  an  extra  quantity  of 

•  on  every  seventh  night.     We  recommend  it  to  the  curi- 
ous to  inquire,  how  this  peculiarity  was  adjusted,  when  the  first 
•  lav  of  the  week  \vas  changed  from  Saturday  to  Sunday. 

The  Sabbath  morning  is  as  peaceful  as  the  first  hallowed  day. 
Not  a  human  sound  is  heard  without  the  dwellings,  and,  but 
for  the  lowing  of  the  herds,  the  cro\ving  of  the  cocks,  and  the 
gossiping  of  the  birds,  animal  life  would  seem  to  be  extinct, 
till,  at  the  bidding  of  the  church-going  bell,  the  old  and  young 
issue  from  their  habitations,  and  with  solemn  demeanor,  bend 


.T,<U  TT1K   LADIES'   RKAPKR. 

their  measured  steps  to  the  meeting-house  ; — the  families  of  the 
minister,  the  squire,  the  doctor,  the  merchant,  the  modest  gen- 
try of  the  village,  and  the  mechanic  and  laborer,  all  arrayed  in 
their  best,  all  meeting  on  even  ground,  and  all  with  that  con- 
sciousness of  independence  and  equality,  which  breaks  down 
the  pride  of  the  rich,  and  rescues  the  poor  from  servility,  envy, 
and  discontent.  If  a  morning  salutation  is  reciprocated,  it  'is 
in  a  suppressed  voice  ;  and  if,  perchance,  nature,  in  some  reck- 
less urchin,  burst  forth  in  laughter — "My  dear,  you  forget  it's 
Sunday,"  is  the  ever  ready  reproof. 

Though  every  face  wears  a  solemn  aspect,  yet  we  once  chanced 
to  see  even  a  deacon's  muscles  relaxed  by  the  wit  of  a  neighbor, 
and  heard  him  allege  in  a  half-deprecating,  half-laughing  voice, 
"  The  squire  is  so  droll,  that  a  body  must  laugh,  though  it  be 
Sabbath-day." 

The  farmer's  ample  wagon,  and  the  little  one-horse  vehicle, 
bring  in  all  who  reside  at  an  inconvenient  walking  distance — 
that  is  to  say,  in  our  riding  community,  half  a  mile  from  the 
church.  It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  to  those  who  love  to  note  the 
happy  peculiarities  of  their  own  land,  to  see  the  farmers' 
daughters,  blooming,  intelligent,  well-bred,  pouring  out  of  these 
homely  coaches,  with  their  nice  white  gowns,  prunel  shoes, 
Leghorn  hats,  fans  and  parasols,  and  the  spruce  young  men, 
with  their  plaited  ruffles,  blue  coats,  and  yellow  buttons.  The 
whole  community  meet  as  one  religious  family,  to  offer  their 
devotions  at  the  common  altar.  If  there  is  an  outlaw  from  the 
society — a  luckless  wight,  whose  vagrant  taste  has  never  been 
subdued — he  may  be  seen  stealing  along  the  margin  of  some 
little  brook,  far  away  from  the  condemning  observation  and 
troublesome  admonition  of  his  fellows. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  day,  (or  to  borrow  a  phrase  descrip- 
tive of  his  feelings,  who  first  used  it),  "when  the  Sabbath 
begins  to  abate"  the  children  cluster  about  the  windows. 
Their  eyes  wander  from  their  catechism  to  the  western  sky, 
and,  though  it  seems  to  them  as  if  the  sun  would  never  disap- 
pear, his  broad  disk  does  slowly  sink  behind  the  mountain  ; 
and,  while  his  last  ray  still  lingers  on  the  eastern  summits, 
merry  voices  break  forth,  and  the  ground  resounds  with  bound- 
ing footsteps.  The  village  belle  arrays  herself  for  her  twilight 
walk;  the  boys  gather  on  "the  green;"  the  lads  and  girls 
throng  to  the  "  singing  school ;"  while  some  coy  maiden  lingers 
at  home,  awaiting  her  expected  suitor ;  and  all  enter  upon  the 
pleasures  of  the  evening  with  as  keen  a  relish  as  if  the  day  had 
been  a  preparatory  penance. 


THE  LADIES1  READER.  355 


BIXGEX  OX  THE  RHIXE-Mss. 

A  soldier  of  the  legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  of  woman's  tears, 

But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  the  life-blood  ebbed  away, 

And  bent  with  pitying  glance  to  hear  each  word  he  had  to  say. 

The  dying  soldier  i'alter'd,  as  he  took  that  comrade's  hand, 

And  he  said :     "  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own — my  native  land  I 

Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  the  distant  friends  of  mine, 

For  I  was  born  at  Bingen — at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine] 

"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and  crowd  around. 
To  hear  my  mournful  story  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale,  beneath  the  setting  sun ; 
And  midst  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old  in  wars, 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts — the  last  of  many  scars. 
But  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  Life's  morn  decline — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhino  I 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her  old  age, 

For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a  cage  ; 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  when  a  child, 

My  heart  leaped  fortli  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce  and  wild; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  board, 

I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my  father's  sword ! 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light  used  to  shine, 

Oa  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on  the  Rhine! 

"Tell  my  sisters  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping  head, 

When  the  troops  are  marching  home  again,  wiih  {.'lad  and  gallant  tread ; 

But  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast  eye, 

For  their  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die ! 

And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame ; 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place — (my  fathers  sword  and  mine,) 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

"  There's  another — not  a  sister,  in  happy  days  gone  by, 

You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in  her  eye; 

niocent  for  coquetry,  too  fond  for  idle  scorning — 
O,  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heaviest  mourning  I 
Tell  lier  the  last  night  of  my  life — (for  ere  the  morn  be  risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of  prison) — 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine! 

"  I  saw  die  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
T  !.e  (jerman  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and  clear; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill, 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening  calm  and  still; 
25 


386  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed,  with  friendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well-remembered  walk ; 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine — 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen— loved  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  his  grasp  was  childish  weak, 

His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look — he  sighed,  and  ceased  to  speak ; 

His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had  fled — 

The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  was  dead! 

And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked  down 

On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corses  strewn  ! 

Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed  to  shine, 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 


THE  DELAWARE  WATER-GAP.-MRs.  E.  F.  ELLET. 

Our  western  land  can  boast  no  lovelier  spot. 
The  hills  which  in  their  ancient  grandeur  stand, 
Piled  to  the  frowning  clouds,  the  bulwarks  seem 
Of  this  wild  scene,  resolved  that  none  but  Heaven 
Shah1  look  upon  its  beauty.     Round  their  breast 
A  curtained  fringe  depends,  of  golden  mist, 
Touched  by  the  slanting  sunbeams ;  while  below 
The  silent  river,  with  majestic  sweep, 
Pursues  his  shadowed  way — his  glassy  face 
Unbroken,  save  when  stoops  the  lone  wild  swan 
To  float  in  pride,  or  dip  his  ruffled  wing. 
Talk  ye  of  solitude  ! — It  is  not  here. 
Nor  silence.     Low,  deep  murmurs  are  abroad. 
Those  towering  hills  hold  converse  with  the  sky 
That  smiles  upon  their  summits ;  and  the  wind 
"Which  stirs  their  wooded  sides,  whispers  of  life, 
And  bears  the  burden  sweet  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
Bidding  the  stately  forest-boughs  look  bright, 
And  nod  to  greet  his  coming  !     And  the  brook, 
That  with  its  silvery  gleam  comes  leaping  down 
Prom  the  hillside,  has,  too,  a  tale  to  tell ; 
The  wild  bird's  music  mingles  with  its  chime ; 
And  gay  young  flowers,  that  blossom  in  its  path, 
Send  forth  their  perfume  as  an  added  gift 
The  river  utters,  too,  a  solemn  voice, 
And  tells  of  deeds  long  past,  in  ages  gone, 
When  not  a  sound  was  heard  along  his  shores, 
Save  the  wild  tread  of  savage  feet,  or  shriek 
Of  some  expiring  captive — and  no  bark 
E'er  cleft  his  gloomy  waters.     Now,  his  waves 
Are  vocal  often  with  the  hunter's  song ; 
Now  visit,  in  their  glad  and  onward  course, 


THE  LADIES'   READER. 

The  abodes  of  happy  men,  gardens,  and  fields, 
And  cultured  plains — still  bearing,  as  they  pass, 
Fertility  renewed  and  fresh  delights. 

The  time  has  been — so  Indian  legends  say — 
When  here  the  mighty  Delaware  poured  not 
His  ancient  waters  through,  but  turned  aside 
Through  yonder  dell  and  washed  those  shaded  vales. 
Then,  too,  these  riven  cliffs  were  one  smooth  hill, 
"U'hich  smiled. in  the  warm  sunbeams,  and  displayed 
The  wealth  of  summer  on  its  graceful  slope. 
Thither  the  hunter-chieftains  oft  repaired 
To  light  their  council-fires;  while  its  dim  height, 
For  ever  veiled  in  mist,  no  mortal  dared, 
'T  is  said,  to  scale ;  save  one  white-haired  old  man, 
Who  there  held  commune  with  the  Indian's  God, 
And  thence  brought  down  to  men  his  high  commands. 
Years  passed  away :  the  gifted  seer  had  lived 
Beyond  life's  natural  term,  and  bent  no  more 
His  weary  limbs  to  seek  the  mountain's  summit. 
New  tribes  had  filled  the  land,  of  fiercer  mien, 
Who  strove  against  each  other.     Blood  and  death 
Filled  those  green  shades  where  all  before  was  peace, 
And  the  stern  warrior  scalped  his  dying  captive 
E'en  on  the  precincts  of  that  holy  spot 
Where  the  Great  Spirit  had  been.     Some  few,  who  mourned 
The  unnatural  slaughter,  urged  the  aged  priest 
Again  to  seek  the  consecrated  height, 
Succor  from  Heaven,  and  mercy  to  implore. 
They  watched  him  from  afar.     He  labored  slowly 
High  up  the  steep  ascent,  and  vanished  soon 

Behind  the  folded  clouds,  which  clustered  dark 

As  the  last  hues  of  sunset  passed  away. 

The  night  fell  heavily ;  and  soon  were  heard 

Low  tones  of  thunder  from  the  mountain-top, 

Muttering,  and  echoed  from  the  distant  hills 

In  deep  and  solemn  peal ;  while  lurid  flashes 

Of  lightning  rent  anon  the  gathering  gloom. 

Then,  wilder  and  more  loud,  a  fearful  crash 

Burst  on  the  startled  ear ;  the  earth,  convulsed, 

Groaned  from  its  solid  centre ;  forests  shook 

For  leagues  around ;  and,  by  the  sudden  gleam 

Which  flung  a  fitful  radiance  on  the  spot, 

A  sight  of  dread  was  seen.     The  mount  was  rent 

From  top  to  base ;  and  where  so  late  had  smiled 

Green  boughs  and  blossoms,  yawned  a  frightful  chasm, 

Filled  with  unnatural  darkness.    From  afar 

The  distant  roar  of  waters  then  was  heard ; 

They  came,  with  gathering  sweep,  o'erwhelming  all 

That  checked  their  headlong  course ;  the  rich  maize  field, 

The  low-roofed  hut,  its  sleeping  inmates— all 

Were  swept  in  speedy,  undistinguished  ruin  ! 

Morn  looked  upon  the  desolated  scene 


387 


388  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Of  the  Groat  Spirit's  anger,  and  beheld 

Strange  waters  passing  through  the  cloven  rocks ; 

And  men  looked  on  in  silence  and  in  fear, 

Arid  far  removed  their  dwellings  from  the  spot, 

"Where  now  no  more  the  hunter  chased  his  prey, 

Or  the  war-whoop  was  heard.     Thus  years  went  on ; 

Each  trace  of  desolation  vanished  fast ; 

Those  bare  and  blackened  cliffs  were  overspread 

With  fresh,  green  foliage,  and  the  swelling  earth 

Yielded  her  stores  of  flowers  to  deck  their  sides. 

The  river  passed  majestically  on 

Through  his  new  channel ;  verdure  graced  his  banks ; 

The  wild  bird  murmured  sweetly  as  before 

In  its  beloved  woods ;  and  naught  remained, 

Save  the  wild  tales  which  hoary  chieftains  told, 

To  mark  the  change  celestial  vengeance  wrought. 


FAMILY  PICTURES-MR.  BRITAIN  AND  HIS  SPOUSE -DICKENS. 

IT  was  a  warm  autumn  afternoon,  and  there  had  been  heavy 
rain.  The  sun  burst  suddenly  from  among  the  clouds :  and  the 
old  battle-ground,  sparkling  brilliantly  and  cheerfully  at  sight 
of  it  in  one  green  place,  flashed  a  responsive  welcome  there, 
which  spread  along  the  country  side  as  if  a  joyful  beacon  had 
been  lighted  up,  and  answered  from  a  thousand  stations. 

How  beautiful  the  landscape  kindling  in  the  light,  and  that 
luxuriant  influence  passing  on  like  a  celestial  presence,  bright- 
ening everything !  The  wood,  a  sombre  mass  before,  revealed 
its  varied  tints  of  yellow,  green,  brown,  red ;  its  different  forms 
of  trees,  with  raindrops  glittering  on  their  leaves  and  twinkling 
as  they  fell.  The  verdant  meadow-land,  bright  and  glowing, 
seemed  as  if  it  had  been  blind  a  minute  since,  and  now  had 
found  a  sense  of  sight  wherewith  to  look  up  at  the  shining  sky. 
Corn-fields,  hedge-rows,  fences,  homesteads,  the  clustered  roofs, 
the  steeple  of  the  church,  the  stream,  the  watermill,  all  sprung 
out  of  the  gloomy  darkness,  smiling.  Birds  sang  sweetly,  flowers 
raised  their  drooping  heads,  fresh  scents  arose  from  the  invigo- 
rated ground ;  the  blue  expanse  above,  extended  and  diffused 
itself;  already  the  sun's  slanting  rays  pierced  mortally  the  sul- 
len bank  of  cloud  that  lingered  in  its  flight ;  and  a  rainbow  spirit 
of  all  the  colors  that  adorned  the  earth  and  sky,  spanned  the 
whole  arch  with  its  triumphant  glory. 

At  such  a  time,  one  little  roadside  Inn,  snugly  sheltered  be- 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  389 

l.ind  a  great  elm-tree  with  a  rare  seat  for  idlers  encircling  its 
capacious  bole,  addressed  a  cheerful  front  toward  the  traveler, 
as  a  house  of  entertainment  ought,  and  tempted  him  with 
many  mute  but  significant  assurances  of  a  comfortable  wel- 
come. The  ruddy  sign-board  perched  up  in  the  tree,  with  its 
golden  letters  winking  in  the  sun,  ogled  the  passer-by  from 
among  the  green  leaves,  like  a  jolly  face,  and  promised  good 
cheer.  The  horse-trough,  full  of  clear  fresh-water,  and  the 
ground  below  it,  sprinkled  with  droppings  of  fragrant  hay, 
made  every  horse  that  passed  prick  up  his  ears.  The  crimson 
curtains  in  the  lower  rooms,  and  the  pure  white  hangings  in 
the  little  bed-chambers  above,  beckoned,  Come  in!  with  every 
breath  of  air.  Upon  the  bright  green  shutters,  there  were 
golden  legends  about  beer  and  ale,  and  neat  wines,  and  good 
:  and  an  affecting  picture  of  a  brown  jug  frothing  over  at 
the  top.  Upon  the  window-sills  were  flowering  plants  in  bright 
red  pots,  which  made  a  lively  show  against  the  white  front  of 
tin-  lions.-;  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  doorway  there  were 
streaks  of  light,  which  glanced  off  from  the  surfaces  of  bottles 
and  tankards. 

On  the  door-step,  appeared  a  proper  figure  of  a  landlord,  too ; 
for  though  he  was  a  short  man,  he  was  round  and  broad;  and 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  legs  just  wide 
enough  apart  to  express  a  mind  at  rest  upon  the  subject  of  the 
cellar,  and  an  easy  confidence — too  calm  and  virtuous  to  become 
a  swagger — in  the  general  resources  of  the  Inn.  The  superabun- 
dant moistmv,  trickling  from  everything  after  the  late  rain,  set 
him  off  well.  Nothing  near  him  was  thirsty.  Certain  top-heavy 
dahlias,  looking  over  the  palings  of  his  neat  well-ordered  gar- 
den, had  swilled  as  much  as  they  could  carry;  but  the  sweet- 
briar,  roses,  wall-flowers,  the  plants  at  the  windows,  and  the 
leaves  on  the  old  tree  were  in  the  beaming  state  of  moderate 
company  that  had  taken  no  more  than  was  wholesome  for  them, 
and  had  served  to  develop  their  best  qualities.  Sprinkling 
dewy  drops  about  them  on  the  ground,  they  seemed  profuse  of 
innocent  and  sparkling  mirth,  that  did  good  where  it  lighted, 
softening  neglected  corners  which  the  steady  rain  could  seldom 
reach,  and  hurting  nothing. 

This  village  Jnn  had  assumed,  on  being  established,  an  un- 
common sign.  It  was  called  The  Nutmeg  Grater.  And  under- 
neath that  household  word,  was  inscribed,  up  in  the  tree,  on  the 
same  flaming  board,  and  in  the  like  golden  characters,  By  Ben- 
jamin Britain. 


390  THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 

At  a  second  glance,  and  on  a  more  minute  examination  of 
his  face,  you  might  have  known  that  it  was  no  other  than  Ben- 
jamin Britain  himself  that  stood  in  the  doorway — reasonably 
changed  by  time*  but  for  the  better  ;  a  very  comfortable  host 
indeed. 

"  Mrs.  B.,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  looking  down  the  road,  "  is  rather 
late.  It's  tea  time." 

As  there  was  no  Mrs.  Britain  coming,  he  strolled  leisurely 
out  into  the  road  and  looked  up  at  the  house,  very  much  to  his 
satisfaction.  "It's  just  the  sort  of  house,"  said  Benjamin,  "I 
should  wish  to  stop  at,  if  I  didn't  keep  it." 

Then  he  strolled  toward  the  garden  paling,  and  took  a  look  at 
the  dahlias.  They  looked  over  at  him  with  a  helpless,  drowsy 
hanging  of  their  heads  :  which  bobbed  again,  as  the  heavy  drops 
of  wet  dripped  off  them. 

"You  must  be  looked  after,"  said  Benjamin.  "Memoran- 
dum, not  to  forget  to  tell  her  so.  She's  a  long  time  coming !" 

Mr.  Britain's  better  half  seemed  to  be  by  so  very  much  his 
better  half,  that  his  own  moiety  of  himself  was  utterly  cast  away 
and  helpless  without  her. 

"  She  hadn't  much  to  do,  I  think,"  said  Ben.  "  There  were 
a  few  little  matters  of  business  after  market,  but  not  many.  Oh ! 
here  we  are  at  last !" 

A  chaise-cart,  driven  by  a  boy,  came  clattering  along  the 
road :  and  seated  in  it,  in  a  chair,  with  a  large  well-saturated 
umbrella  spread  out  to  dry  behind  her,  was  the  plump  figure  of 
a  matronly  woman,  with  her  bare  arms  folded  across  a  basket 
which  she  carried  on  her  knee,  several  other  baskets  and  parcels 
lying  crowded  about  her,  and  a  certain  bright  good-nature  in 
her  face  and  contented  awkwardness  in  her  manner,  as  she  jog- 
ged to  and  fro  with  the  motion  of  her  carriage,  which  smacked 
of  old  times,  even  in  the  distance.  Upon  her  nearer  approach, 
this  relish  of  bygone  days  was  not  diminished ;  and  when  the 
cart  stopped  at  the  Nutmeg  Grater  door,  a  pair  of  shoes,  alight- 
ing from  it,  slipped  nimbly  through  Mr.  Britain's  open  arms,  and 
came  down  with  a  substantial  weight  upon  the  pathway,  which 
shoes  could  hardly  have  belonged  to  any  one  but  Clemency 
Newcome. 

In  fact  they  did  belong  to  her,  and  she  stood  in  them,  and  a 
rosy  comfortable-looking  soul  she  was ;  with  as  much  soap  on 
her  glossy  face  as  in  times  of  yore,  but  with  whole  elbows  now, 
that  had  grown  quite  dimpled  in  her  improved  condition. 

"  You're  late,  Clcmmy !"  said  Mr.  Britain. 


THE  LADIES1  READER, 


391 


"  Why,  you  sec,  Ben,  I've  had  a  deal  to  do !"  she  replied, 
looking  busily  after  the  safe  removal  into  the  house  of  all  the 
packages  and  baskets ;  "  eight,  nine,  ten — where's  eleven  ?  Oh ! 
my  baskets,  eleven  !  It's  all  right.  Put  the  horse  up,  Harry, 
and  if  he  coughs  again  give  him  a  warm  mash  to-night.  Eight, 
nine,  ten.  Why,  where's  eleven?  Oh  I  forgot,  it's  all  right. 
How's  the  children,  Ben  ?" 

"Hearty,  Clemmy,  hearty." 

"  Bless  their  precious  faces !"  said  Mrs.  Britain,  unbonneting 
her  own  round  countenance  (for  she  and  her  husband  were  by 
this  time  in  the  bar),  and  smoothing  her  hair  with  her  open 
hands.  "Give  us  a  kiss,  old  man." 

Mr.  Britain  promptly  complied. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Britain,  applying  herself  to  her  pockets, 
and  drawing  forth  an  immense  bulk  of  thin  books  and  crumpled 
; s,  a  very  kennel  of  dogs'  ears  :  "  I've  done  everything. 
Billa  all  settled — turnips  sold— brewer's  account  looked  into 
and  paid — 'bacco  pipes  ordered — seventeen  pound  four  paid 
into  the  Bank." 

"Then  there's  the  pony,"  said  Clemency — "  he  fetched  eight 
pound  two  ;  and  that  an't  bad,  is  it  ?" 

"  It's  very  good,"  said  Ben. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  pleased!"  exclaimed  his  wife.  "  I  thought 
you  would  be ;  and  I  think  that's  all,  and  so  no  more  at  present 
from  yours. and  cetrer,  C.  Britain." 

Though  the  host  of  the  Nutmeg  Grater  had  a  lively  regard 
for  his  good  wife,  it  was  of  the  old  patronising  kind ;  and  she 
amused  him  mightily.  Nothing  would  have  astonished  him  so 
much,  as  to  have  known  for  certain  from  any  third  party,  that  it 
was  she  who  managed  the  whole  house,  and  made  him,  by  her 
plain  straightforward  thrift,  good-humor,  honesty,  and  industry, 
a  thriving  man.  So  easy  it  is,  in  any  degree  of  life  (as  the 
world  very  often  finds  it),  to  take  those  cheerful  natures  that 
never  assert  their  merit,  at  their  own  modest  valuation ;  and  to 
conceive  a  flippant  liking  of  people  for  their  outward  oddities 
and  eccentricities,  whose  innate  worth,  if  we  would  look  so  far, 
might  make  us  blush  in  the  comparison ! 

1 1  was  comfortable  to  Mr.  Britain,  to  think  of  his  own  conde- 

'•>!!   in   having  married  Clemency.     She  was  a  perpetual 

testimony  to  him  of  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  and  the  kindness 

of  his  disposition  ;  and  he  felt  that  her  being  an  excellent  wife 

in  ill i^trution  of  the  old  precept,  that  virtue  is  its  own 

ird. 


302  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


PAEEHASIUS.-N.  P.  WILLIS. 

The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  roam 
Streamed  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 
Prom  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 
And,  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere. 
Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical,  they  lay. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  armour,  and  about, 
In  the  dim  corners,  stood  the  sculptured  forms 
Of  Cytheris,  and  Dian,  and  stern  Jove, 
And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 
Fell  the  grotesque,  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 
And,  like  a  veil  of  filmy  mellowness, 
The  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvass.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemm'an  festering  in  his  flesh; 
And  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 
Rapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  wild 
Forth  with  its  reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye 
Fla-shed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curi 
Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 
"Were  like  the  winged  god's,  breathing  from  bis  flight 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now ! 

My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift          4 

From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift ; 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens,  around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

"Ha  !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  !  as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here — 
Quick — or  he  faints ! — stand  with  the  cordial  near ! 

Now  bend  him  to  the  rack  ! 
Press  down  the  poisoned  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  ! 

"  So — let  him  writhe !     How  long 
"Will  he  live  thus  ?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now ! 
"What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow  ! 

Ha  !  grey-haired,  and  so  strong ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods  I  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  ! 

"Pity"thee!     Soldo! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar ; 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  393 

A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine  : 
What  \vere  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 

"Hal  there's  a  deathless  name — 
A  spirit,  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And,  like  a  steadfast  planet,  mount  and  burn ; 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  won  me, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars!  I'd  pluck  it  on  me. 

''Ay,  though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst ; 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  maddened  first 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild ; — 

"All,  I  would  do  it  all, 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot ; 
Thrust  foully  in  the  earth  to  be  forgot. 

0  heavens !  but  I  appal 

Your  heart,  old  man !  forgive — Ha !  on  your  lives, 
Let  him  not  faint ! — rack  him  till  he  revives  ! 

"  Vain,  vain ;  give  o'er !     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back  !  I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow. 

Gods !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 

"  Shivering  !     Hark  !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another  ?    Wilt  thou  never  come,  oh  Death  ? 

Look !  how  his  temple  flutters  ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?    Aha  !  lift  up  his  head ! 
He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him— so — he's  dead  I" 


ROME.-BYRON. 

0  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee — 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  1  and  control, 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  your  woes  and  sufferance  ?    Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye  ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day: — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 
17* 


394  THE  LADIES'   READER. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe,- , 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ;  . 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber !  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress ! 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  time,  war,  flood,  and  fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep,  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  Capitol :  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site  : 
Chaos  of  ruins !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us :  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  Ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands  and  cry  "  Eureka !  it  is  clear" — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

Alas !  the  lofty  city  !  and  alas  ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away ! 
Alas !  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  !  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas  !  for  earth ;  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free ! 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  QUEEN 

THE  Queen  arrived  in  the  hall  of  death.  Pale,  but  unflinch- 
ing, she  contemplated  the  dismal  preparations.  There  lay  the 
block  and  the  axe.  There  stood  the  executioner  and  his  assis- 
tant. All  were  clothed  in  mourning.  On  the  floor  was  scat- 
tered the  sawdust  which  was  to  soak  her  blood,  and  in  a  dark 
corner  lay  the  bier  which  was  to  be  her  last  prison.  It  was 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  395 

nine  o'clock  when  the  Queen  appeared  in  the  funeral  hall. 
Fletcher,  Dean  of  Peterborough,  and  certain  privileged  persons, 
to  the  number  of  more  than  two  hundred,  were  assembled. 
The  hall  was  hung  with  black  cloth ;  the  scaffold,  which  was 
elevated  about  two  feet  and  a  half  above  the  ground,  was  cov- 
ered with  black  frieze  of  Lancaster;  the  arm-chair  in  which 
Mary  was  to  sit,  the  footstool  on  which  she  was  to  kneel,  the 
block  on  which  her  head  was  to  be  laid,  were  covered  with 
black  velvet. 

The  Queen  was  clothed  in  mourning  like  the  hall  and  as  the 
ensigns  of  punishment.  Her  black  velvet  robe,  with  its  high 
collar  and  hanging  sleeves,  was  bordered  with  ermine.  Her 
mantle,  lined  with  marten  sable,  was  of  satin,  with  pearl  but- 
tons, and  a  long  train.  A  chain  of  sweet-smelling  beads,  to 
which  was  attached  a  scapulary,  and  beneath  that  a  golden 
cross,  fell  upon  her  bosom.  Two  rosaries  were  suspended  to 
her  girdle,  and  a  long  veil  of  white  lace,  which  in  some  mea- 
sure softened  this  costume  of  a  widow  and  of  a  condemned 

criminal  was  thrown  around  her. 

*****  %  % 

Arrived  on  the  scaffold,  Mary  seated  herself  in  the  chair  pro- 
vided for  her,  with  her  face  toward  the  spectators.  The  Dean 
of  Peterborough,  in  ecclesiastical  costume,  sat  on  the  right  of 
the  (,)uern,  with  a  black  velvet  footstool  before  him.  The  Earls 
of  Kent  and  Shrewsbury  were  seated  like  him  on  the  right, 
but  upon  larger  chairs.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Queen  stood 
tin-  Slit-riff  Andrews,  with  white  wand.  In  front 'of  Mary  were 
t lie  executioner  and  his  assistant,  distinguishable  by  their 
•  •iits  of  black  velvet,  with  red  crape  round  the  left  arm. 
Behind  the  Queen's  chair,  ranged  by  the  wall,  wept  her  attend- 
ants and  maidens.  In  the  body  of  the  hall,  the  nobles  and 
citizens  from  the  neighboring  counties  were  guarded  by  the 
musketeers  of  Sir  Amyas  Paulet  and  Sir  DrewDrury.  Beyond 
the  balustrade  was  the  bar  of  the  tribunal.  The  sentence  was 
read  ;  the  Queen  protested  against  it  in  the  name  of  royalty 
and  of  innocence,  but  accepted  death  for  the  sake  of  the  faith. 
She  then  knelt  before  the  block,  and  the  executioner  proceeded 
to  remove  her  veil.  She  repelled  him  by  a  gesture,  and  turn- 
in--  toward  the  Earls  with  a  blush  on  her  forehead,  "I  am  not 
accustomed,"  she  said,  "to  be  undressed  before  so  numerous  a 
company,  and  by  the  hands  of  such  grooms  of  the  chamber." 
She  then  called  Jane  Kennedy  and  Elizabeth  Curie,  who  took 
oil'  her  mantle,  her  veil,  her  chains,  cross  and  scapulary.  On 


396  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

their  touching  her  robe,  the  Queen  told  them  to  unloose  the 
corsage,  and  fold  down  the  ermine  collar,  so  as  to  leave  her 
neck  bare  for  the  axe.  Her  maidens  weepingly  yielded  her 
these  last  services.  Melvil  and  the  three  other  attendants  wept 
and  lamented,  and  Mary  placed  her  finger  on  her  lips  to  signify 
that  they  should  be  silent.  She  then  arranged  the  handker- 
chief embroidered  with  thistles  of  gold,  with  which  her  eyes 
had  been  covered  by  Jane  Kennedy.  Thrice  she  kissed  the 
crucifix,  each  time  repeating,  "  Lord,  into  thy  hands  I  com- 
mend my  spirit."  She  knelt  anew,  and  leant  her  head  on  that 
block  which  was  already  scored  with  deep  marks ;  and  in  this 
solemn  attitude  she  again  recited  some  verses  from  the  Psalms. 
The  executioner  interrupted  her  at  the  third  verse  by  a  blow 
of  the  axe,  but  its  trembling  stroke  only  grazed  her  neck ;  she 
groaned  slightly,  and  the  second  blow  separated  the  head  from 
the  body. 


EARTH,  WITH  HER  THOUSAND  VOICES,  PRAISES  GOD -LONGFELLOW. 

When  first,  in  ancient  time,  from  JubaFs  tongue, 

The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air, 

To  sacred  hymnings  and  Elysian  song 

His  music-breathing  shell  the  minstrel  woke. 

Devotion  breathed  aloud  from  every  chord ; — 

The  voice  of  praise  was  heard  in  every  tone, 

And  prayer,  and  thanks  to  Him,  the  Eternal  One, — 

To  Him,  that,  with  bright  inspiration,  touched 

The  high  and  gifted  lyre  of  heavenly  song, 

And  warmed  the  soul  with  new  vitality, 

A  stirring  energy  through  nature  breathed ; 

The  voice  of  adoration  from  her  broke, 

Swelling  aloud  in  every  breeze,  and  heard 

Long  in  the  sullen  waterfall, — what  time 

Soft  Spring  or  hoary  Autumn  threw  on  earth 

Its  bloom  or  blighting, — when  the  Summer  smiled, 

Or  Winter  o'er  the  year's  sepulchre  mourned. 

The  Deity  was  there ! — a  nameless  spirit 

Moved  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  do  him  homage ; 

And  when  the  Morning  smiled,  or  Evening,  pale, 

Hung  weeping  o'er  the  melancholy  urn, 

They  came  beneath  the  broad  o'erarching  trees, 

And  in  their  tremulous  shadow  worshipped  oft, 

Where  the  pale  vine  hung  round  their  simple  altars, 

And  gray  moss  mantling  hung.     Above  was  heard 

The  melody  of  winds,  breathed  out  as  the  green  trees 

Bowed  to  their  quivering  touch  in  living  beauty, 


397 

And  birds  sang  forth  their  cheerful  hymns.     Below 

The  bright  and  widely  wandering  rivulet 

Struggled  and  gushed  amongst  the  tangled  roots, 

That  choked  its  reedy  fountain — and  dark  rocks, 

Worn  smooth  by  the  constant  current.     Even  there 

The  listless  wave,  that  stole,  with  mellow  voice, 

"Where  reeds  grew  rank  upon  the  rushy  brink, 

And  to  the  wandering  wind  the  green  sedge  bent, 

Sang  a  sweet  song  of  fixed  tranquillity. 

Men  felt  the  heavenly  influence ;  and  it  stole 

Like  balm  into  their  hearts,  till  all  was  peace ; 

And  even  the  air  they  breathed, — the  light  they  saw, — 

Became  religion ; — for  the  ethereal  spirit, 

That  to  soft  music  wakes  the  chords  of  feeling, 

And  mellows  everything  to  beauty,  moved 

With  cheering  energy  within  their  breasts, 

And  made  all  holy  there — for  all  was  love. 

The  morning  stars,  that  sweetly  sang  together — 

The  moon,  that  hung  at  night  in  the  mid-sky — 

Dayspring — and  eventide — and  all  the  fair 

And  beautiful  forms  of  nature,  had  a  voice 

Of  eloquent  worship.     Ocean,  with  its  tide, 

Swelling  and  deep,  where  low  the  infant  storm 

Hung  on  his  dun,  dark  cloud,  and  heavily  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  sea,  sent  forth  a  voice 

Of  awful  adoration  to  the  Spirit, 

That,  wrapped  in  darkness,  moved  upon  its  face. 

And  when  the  bow  of  evening  arched  the  east, 

Or,  in  the  moonlight  pale,  the  gentle  wave 

Kissed,  with  a  sweet  embrace,  the  sea-worn  beach, 

And  the  wild  song  of  winds  came  o'er  the  waters, 

The  mingled  melody  of  wind  and  wave 

Touched  like  a  heavenly  anthem  on  the  ear ; 

For  it  arose  a  tuneful  hymn  of  worship. 

And  have  our  hearts  grown  cold  ?  Are  there  on  earth 

No  pure  reflections  caught  from  heavenly  love  ? 

Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn — our  souls  no  song? 

Let  him,  that,  in  the  summer-day  of  youth, 

Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling, 

And  him,  that,  in  the  nightfall  of  his  years, 

Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep,  and  shuts  in  peace 

His  weary  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 

Praise  Him  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man. 


398  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


WILLIAM  TELL— JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

GESLER,  TELL,  and  ALBERT,  VERNER,  SARNEM,  and  Soldiers. 

Sarnem.  Down,  slave  I 

Behold  the  governor.     Down !  down !  and  beg 
For  mercy ! 

Gesler.  Does  he  hear? — Thy  name  ? 
Tell  My  name? 

It  matters  not  to  keep  it  from  thee  now : 
My  name  is  Tell. 

Ges.  Tell!— William  TeU? 
Tell.  The  same. 

Ges.  What  1  he  so  famed  'bove  all  his  countrymen 
For  guiding  o'er  the  stormy  lake  the  boat ! 
And  such  a  master  of  his  bow,  'tis  said 
His  arrows  never  miss ! — [J.szde.]    Indeed  !     I'll  take 
Exquisite  vengeance  ! — Mark !  I'll  spare  thy  life, 
Thy  boy's,  too.     Both  of  you  are  free — on  one 
Condition. 
Tell  Name  it. 
Ges.  I  would  see  you  make 
A  trial  of  your  skill  with  that  same  bow 
You  shoot  so  well  with. 

Tell  Name  the  trial  you 
Would  have  me  make.  [Tell  loolcs  on  Albert.] 

Ges.  You  look  upon  your  boy, 
As  though  instinctively  you  guessed  it. 

TeU.  Look 

Upon  my  boy ! — What  mean  you?     Look  upon 
My  boy,  as  though  I  guessed  it !     Guessed  the  trial 
You'd  have  me  make  1     Guessed  it 
Instinctively !     You  do  not  mean — No — no — 
You  would  not  have  me  make  a  trial  of 
My  skill  upon  my  child !     Impossible ! 
I  do  not  guess  your  meaning. 

Ges.  I  would  see 

Thee  hit  an  apple  at  the  distance  of 
A  hundred  paces. 

Tell.  Is  my  boy  to  hold  it? 
Ges.  No. 

Tell.  No ! — I'll  send  the  arrow  through  the  core  I 
Ges.  It  is  to  rest  upon  his  head. 
Tell  Great  Heaven, 
Thou  hear'st  him  I 

Ges.  Thou  dost  hear  the  choice  I  give — 
Such  trial  of  the  skill  thou'rt  master  of, 
Or  death  to  both  of  you,  not  otherwise 
To  be  escaped. 
TeU.  0,  monster! 


THE  LADIES'  READER. 

Ges.  Wilt  thon  do  it? 

Alb.  He  will!  he  will! 

Tell.  Ferocious  monster!     Make 
A  father  murder  his  own  child ! 

Ges.  Take  off 
His  chains,  if  he  consents. 

Tell  With  his  own  hand! 

Ges.  Does  he  consent? 

Alb.  He  does. 

[Geskr  signs  to  his  Officers,  who  proceed  to  take  off 
TeWs  chains,  Tell  all  the  while  unconscious  of 
what  they  do.~\ 

Tett.  With  his  own  hand! 
Murder  his  child  with  his  own  hand! 
The  hand  I've  led  him,  when  an  infant,  by  I 
[His  chains  fall  off.}     What's  that  you 
Have  done  to  me  ?     [To  the  Guard.} 
Villains !  put  on  my  chains  again. 

My  hands 

Are  free  from  blood,  and  have  no  gust  for  it, 
That  they  should  drink  my  childs ! — 

I'll  not 
Murder  my  boy  for  Gesler. 

AW.  Father— father ! 
You  will  not  hit  me,  father ! 

Ges.  Dost  thou  consent? 

Tell.  Give  me  my  bow  and  quiver. 

Ges.  For  what? 

Tett.  To  shoot  my  boy! 
•    AW.  No,  father,  no ! 

To  save  me  I — You'll  be  sure  to  hit  the  apple. 
Will  you  not  save  me,  father  ? 

Tdl.  Lead  me  forth— 
I'll  make  the  trial! 

Alb.  Thank  you ! 

Tett.  Thank  me !— Do 

You  know  for  what  ? — I  will  not  make  the  trial, 
To  take  him  to  his  mother  in  my  arms, 
And  lay  him  down  a  corse  before  her! 

Ges.  Then 

He  dies  this  moment;  and  you  certainly 
Do  murder  him,  whose  life  you  have  a  chance 
To  save,  and  will  not  use  it. 

Tett.  Well— I'll  do  it! 
I'll  make  the  trial. 

AW.  Father! 

Tett.  Speak  not  to  me. 

Let  me  not  hear  thy  voice — thou  must  be  dumb  ; 
And  so  should  all  things  be— earth  should  be  dumb 
And  heaven — unless  its  thunders  muttered  at 
The  deed,  and  sent  a  bolt  to  stop  it !     Give  me 
My  bow  and  quiver ! 


400  THE  LADIES'  RKADKK. 

Ges.  That  is  your  ground. — Now  shall  they  measure  thence 
A  hundred  paces.     Take  the  distance. 

TeO.  Is 
The  line  a  true  one  ? 

Ges.  True  or  not,  what  is't 
Tothee? 

Tell  What  is't  to  me?     A  little  thing, 
A  very  little  thing :  a  yard  or  two 
Is  nothing  here  or  there,  were  it  a  wolf 
I  shot  at ! 

Ges.  Be  thankful,  slave, 
Our  grace  accords  thee  life  on  any  terms. 

Tell.  I  will  be  thankful,  Gesler  ! — Villain,  stop ! 
You  measure  to  the  sun.     [To  the  Attendant.] 

Ges.  And  what  of  that? 
"What  matter,  whether  to  or  from  the  sun  ? 

Tell.  I'd  have  it  at  my  back. — The  sun  should  shine 
Upon  the  mark,  and  not  on  him  that  shoots, 
I  cannot  see  to  shoot  against  the  sun: — 
I  will  not  shoot  against  the  sun ! 

Ges.  Give  him  his  way ! — Thou  hast  cause  to  bless  my  mercy. 

Tell.  I  shall  remember  it.     I'd  like  to  see 
The  apple  I'm  about  to  shoot  at. 

Ges.  Show  me 
The  basket. — There  !     [Gives  a  very  small  apple.] 

Tell.  You've  picked  the  smallest  one. 

Ges.  I  know  I  have. 

Tell.  Oh !  do  you  ? — But  you  see 
The  color  oft  is  dark — I'd  have  it  light, 
To  see  it  better. 

Ges.  Take  it  as  it  is : 
Thy  skill  will  be  the  greater  if  thou  hitt'st  it. 

Tell.  True — true — I  didn't  think  of  that.     I  wonder 
I  did  not  think  of  that. — Give  me  some  chance 
To  save  my  boy !   [Throws  away  the  apple]  I  will  not  murder  him, 
If  I  can  help  it — tor  the  honor  of 
The  form  thou  wear'st,  if  all  the  heart  is  gone. 

Ges.  Well !  choose  thyself. 

[Hands  a  basket  of  apples. — Tell  takes  one.] 

Tell.  Have  I  a  friend  among 
The  lookers  on  ? 

Verner.  Here,  Tell ! 

Tell.  I  thank  thee,  Verner! — Take  the  boy 
And  set  him,  Verner,  with  his  back  to  me. — 
Set  him  upon  his  knees ;  and  place  this  apple 
Upon  his  head,  so  that  the  stem  may  front  me — 
Thus,  Verner ;  charge  him  to  keep  steady  —tell  him 
I'll  hit  the  apple ! — Verner,  do  all  this 
More  briefly  than  I  tell  it  thee. 

Ver.  Come,  Albert !     [Leading  him  out] 

Alb.  May  I  not  speak  with  him  before  I  go? 

Ver.  No— 


Till-:  LAWKS*   READER.  401 

Alb.  I  would  only  kiss  his  hand — 

Ver.  You  must  not. 

Alb.  1  must! — I  cannot  go  from  him  without! 

Ver.  It  i.s  his  will  you  should. 

Alb.  His  will,  is  it? 
I  am  content,  then  ;  come. 

Tdl.  My  boy !     [Holding  out  his  arms  to  Mm.] 

Alb.  My  father!     [Kunnmg  into  TdPsarms] 

Tdl.  If  thou  canst  bear  it,  should  not  I  ?— Go  no-?', 
My  son — and  keep  in  mind  that  I  can  shoot. — 
Go,  boy — be  thou  but  steady,  I  will -hit 
The  apple.     Go  :  God  bless  thee !— Go. 
My  bow !     [Sarnein  gives  the  bow.] 
Thou  wilt  not  fail  thy  master,  wilt  thou  ?— Thou 
Hast  never  failed  him  yet,  old  servant. — No, 
I'm  sure  of  thee — I  know  thy  honesty ; 

Thou'rt  stanch — stanch ; — I'd  deserve  to  find  thee  treacherous, 
Could  I  suspect  thee  so.     Come,  I  will  stake 
My  all  upon  thee  I     Let  me  see  my  quiver.       [Retires.] 

Ges.  (iive  him  a  single  arrow.    [To  an  Attendant.] 

Tell.  Is't  so  you  pick  an  arrow,  friend  ? 
The  point,  you  see,  is  bent,  the  feather  jagged ; 
That's  all  the  use  'tis  fit  for.     [Breaks  it] 

Ges.  Let  him  have 
Another.     [Tdl  examines  it] 

Tdl.  Why,  'tis  better  than  the  first, 
But  yet  not  good  enough  for  such  an  aim 
As  I'm  to  take.     'Tis  heavy  in  the  shaft: 

I'll  not  shoot  with  it !     [Throws  it  away.]     Let  me  see  my  quiver 
Bring  it !  'tra  not  one  arrow  in  a  dozen 
I'd  take  to  shoot  with  at  a  dove,  much  less 
A  dove  like  thatl — What  is't  you  fear?    I'm  but 
A  naked  man,  a  wretched  naked  man ! 
Your  helpless  thrall,  alone  in  the  midst  of  you, 
With  everyone  of  you  a  weapon  in 
His  hand.     What  can  I  do  in  such  a  strait 
With  all  the  arrows  in  that  quiver?.  .Come, 
Will  you  give  it  mo  or  not? 

Ges.  It  matters  not, 
Show  him  the  quiver. 

[Tdl  kneels  and  picks  out  an  arrow,  then  secretes  one  in 
his  vest.] 

Tdl.  See  if  the  boy  is  ready. 

Ver.  He  is. 

Tdl.  I'm  ready  too. — Keep  silence  for  [To  the  people.] 

Heaven's  sake !  and  do  not  stir,  and  let  me  have 
Your  prayers — your  prayers : — and  be  my  witnesses, 
That  if  his  life's  in  peril  from  my  hand, 
'Tis  only  for  the  chance  of  saving  it. 
Now,  friends,  for  mercy's  sake,  keep  motionless 
And  silent  I 

[Tdl  shoots;  and  a  shout  of  exultation  bursts  from  the  crowd.] 
26 


402  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

Ver.     [Bushing  in  with  Albert.]     Thy  boy  is  safe ;  no  hair  of  him 

is  touched ! 

Alb.  Father,  I'm  safe ! — your  Albert's  safe !  Dear  father, 
Speak  to  me !  speak  to  me ! 

Ver.  He  cannot,  boy ! 
Open  his  vest, 
And  give  him  air. 

[Albert  opens  his  father's  vest,  and  an  arrow  drops;  Tell 
start,  fixes  his  eyes  on  Albert,  and  clasps  linn  to  his 
breast.'] 

Tell.  My  boy !  my  boy  1 
Ges.  For  what 
Hid  you  that  arrow  in  your  breast  ?     Speak,  slave  ! 

Tell.  To  kill  thee,  tyrant,  had  I  slain  my  boy ! 
Liberty 

"Would  at  thy  downfall  shout  from  every  peak ! 
My  country  then  were  free  ! 


A  THANKSGIVING  DINNER.-MRS.  ANN  ft.  STEPHENS. 

Oh,  I  love  an  old-fashioned  thanksgiving, 
When  the  crops  are  all  safe  in  the  barn ; 

When  the  chickens  are  plump  with  good  living, 
And  the  wool  is  all  spun  into  yarn. 

It  is  pleasant  to  draw  round  the  table, 

"When  uncles  and  cousins  are  there, 
And  grandpa,  who  scarcely  is  able, 

Sits  down  in  his  old  oaken  chair. 

It  is  pleasant  to  wait  for  the  blessing, 
With  a  heart  free  from  malice  and  strife, 

While  a  turkey  that 's  portly  with  dressing, 
Lies,  meekly  awaiting  the  knife. 

Amid  all  the  varieties  of  architecture — Grecian,  Gothic,  Swiss, 
Chinese,  and  even  Egyptian,  to  be  met  with  on  Long  Island,  there 
may  yet  be  found  some  genuine  old  farms,  with  barns  instead 
of  carriage-houses,  and  cow-sheds  in  the  place  of  pony  stables. 
To  these  old  houses  are  still  attached  generous  gardens,  hedged 
in  with  picket-fences,  and  teeming  with  vegetables,  and  front 
yards  fall  of  old-fashioned  shrubbery,  with  thick  grass  half  a 
century  old  mossing  them  over.  These  things,  primitive,  and 
full  of  the  olden  times,  are  not  yet  crowded  out  of  sight  by 
sloping  lawns,  gravel  walks  and  newly  acclimated  flowers ;  and 
if  they  do  not  so  vividly  appeal  to  the  taste,  those,  who  havo 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  403 

hearts,  sometimes  find  them  softened  by  the  relics  of  the  past, 
to  warmer  and  sweeter  feelings  than  mere  fancy  ever  aroused. 

One  of  these  old  houses,  a  low-roofed,  unpretending  dwelling, 
exhibiting  unmistakable  evidence  of  what  had  once  been  white 
paint  on  the  edges  of  its  clap-boards,  and  crowned  by  a  huge 
stone  chimney,  whose  generous  thvoat  seemed  half  choked  up 
with  swallows'  nests,  belonged  to  a  character  in  our  story  which 
the  reader  cannot  have  forgotten  without  breaking  the  au- 
thor's heart. 

It  was  autumn — but  a  generous,  balmy  autumn,  that  seemed 
to  cajole  and  flatter  the  summer  into  keeping  it  company  close 
up  to  Christmas.  True,  the  gorgeous  tints  of  a  late  Indian 
summer  lay  richly  among  the  trees,  but  some  patches  of  bright 
green  were  still  left,  defying  the  season,  and  putting  aside,  from 
day  to  day,  the  red  and  golden  veil  which  the  frost  was  con- 
stantly endeavoring  to  cast  over  them. 

In  front  of  the  old  house  stood  two  maples — noble  trees,  such 
as  have  had  no  time  to  root  themselves  around  your  modern 
cottages.  These  maples,  symmetrical  as  a  pair  of  huge  pine 
cones,  rose  against  the  house  a  perfect  cloud  of  gorgeous  foliage. 
One  was  red  as  blood,  and  with  a  dash  of  the  most  vivid  green 
still  keeping  its  hold  down  the  centre  of  each  leaf — the  other 
golden  all  over,  as  if  its  roots  were  nourished  in  the  metallic 
soil  of  California,  and  its  leaves  dusted  by  the  winds  that  drift 
up  gold  in  the  valley  of  Sacramento.  These  superb  trees 
blended  and  wove  their  ripe  leaves  together,  now  throwing  out 
a  wave  of  red,  now  a  mass  of  gold,  and  here  a  tinge  of  green 
in  splendid  confusion. 

All  around,  under  these  maples,  the  grass  was  littered  with 
a  fantastic  carpet  of  leaves,  showered  down  from  their  branches. 
They  hung  around  the  huge  old  lilac  bushes.  They  fluttered 
down  to  the  rose  thickets,  and  lay  in  patches  of  torn  crimson 
and  crumpled  gold  among  the  house-leeks  and  mosses  on  the 
roof. 

In  and  out,  through  this  shower  of  ripe  leaves  fluttered  the 
swallows.  In  and  out  along  the  heavy  branches,  darted  a  pair 
of  red  squirrels,  who  owned  a  nest  in  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  stately  trees.  In  and  out,  through  the  long,  low  kitchen, 
the  parlor,  the  pantries,  and  the  milk-room,  went  and  came  our 
(•Id  friend,  Mrs.  Gray,  the  comely  huckster- worn  an  of  Fulton 
market.  That  house  was  hers.  That  great  square  garden  at 
the  back  door  was  hers.  How  comfortable  and  harvest-like  it 
lay,  sloping  down  toward  the  south,  divided  into  sections, 


404  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

crowded  with  parsnips,  beets,  onions,  potatoes,  raspberry  thick- 
ets, and  strawberry  patches ;  in  short,  running  over  with  a 
stock  in  trade  that  had  furnished  her  market  stall  during  the 
year. 

The  season  was  late.  The  frost  had  been  there  nipping, 
biting  and  pinching  up  the  noble  growth  of  vegetables  that  was 
to  supply  Mrs.  Gray's  stall  in  the  winter  months.  Half  the 
great  white  onions  lay  above  ground,  with  their  silvery  coats 
exposed.  The  beet  beds  were  of  a  deep  blackish  crimson;  and 
the  cucumber  vines  had  yielded  up  their  last  delicate  gherkins. 
All  her  neighbors  had  gathered  in  their  crops  days  ago,  but 
the  good  old  lady  only  laughed  and  chuckled  over  the  example 
thus  offered  for  her  imitation.  New  England  born  and  accus- 
tomed to  the  sharp  east  winds  of  Maine,  she  cared  nothing  for 
the  petty  frosts  that  only  made  the  leaves  of  her  beet  and  pars- 
nip beds  gorgeous,  while  their  precious  bulbs  lay  safely  bedded 
in  the  soil.  No  matter  what  others  did,  she  never  gathered 
her  garden  crop  till  Thanksgiving.  That  was  her  harvest  time, 
her  great  yearly  jubilee — the  season  when  her  accounts  were 
reckoned  up — when  her  barns  and  cellars  were  running  over 
with  the  wealth  of  her  little  farm. 

Christmas,  New  Year,  the  Fourth  of  July,  in  short,  all  the 
holidays  of  the  year  were  crowded  into  one  with  Mrs.  Gray. 
During  the  whole  twelve  months,  she  commemorated  Thanks- 
giving only.  The  reader  must  not,  for  a  moment,  suppose  that 
the  Thanksgiving  Mrs.  Gray  loved  to  honor,  was  the  miserable 
counterfeit  of  a  holiday  proclaimed  by  the  Governor  of  New 
York.  No!  Mrs.  Gray  scorned  this  poor  attempt  at  imita- 
tion. It  made  her  double  chin  quiver  only  to  think  of  it.  If 
ever  a  look  of  contempt  crept  into  those  benevolent  eyes,  it  was 
when  people  would  try  to  convince  her  that  any  Governor  out  of 
New  England,  could  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  regular  Down- 
East  Thanksgiving ;  or,  that  any  woman  south  of  old  Connect- 
icut, could  be  educated  into  the  culinary  mysteries  of  a  mince 
pie.  Her  faith  was  boundless,  her  benevolence  great,  but  in 
these  things  Mrs.  Gray  could  not  force  herself  to  believe. 

You  should  have  seen  the  old  lady  as  Thanksgiving  week 
drew  near — not  the  New  York  one,  but  that  solemnly  pro- 
claimed by  the  Governor  of  Maine.  Mrs.  Gray  heeded  no  other. 
That  week  the  woman  of  a  neighboring  stall  took  charge  of 
Mrs.  Gray's  business.  The  customers  were  served  by  a  strange 
hand ;  the  brightness  of  her  comely  face  was  confined  to  her 
own  roof  tree.  She  gave  thanks  to  God  for  the  bounties  of 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  405 

the  earth,  heartily,  earnestly ;  but  it  was  her  pleasure  to  render 
these  thanks  after  the  fashion  of  her  ancestors. 

You  should  have  seen  her  then,  surrounded  by  raisins,  black 
currants,  pumpkin  sauce,  peeled  apples,  sugar  boxes  and  plates 
of  golden  butter,  her  plump  hand  pearly  with  flour  dust,  the 
whole  kitchen  redolent  with  ginger,  allspice  and  cloves  !  You 
should  have  seen  her  grating  orange  peel  and  nutmegs,  the 
border  of  her  snow-white  cap  rising  and  falling  to  the  motion 
of  her  hands,  and  the  soft  gray  hair  underneath,  tucked  hur- 
riedly back  of  the  ear  on  one  side,  where  it  had  threatened  to 
be  in  the  way. 

You  should  have  seen  her  in  that  large,  splint-bottomed 
rocking-chair,  with  a  wooden  bowl  in  her  capacious  lap,  and  a 
sharp  chopping-knife  in  her  right  hand ;  with  what  a  soft,  easy 
motion  the  chopping-knife  fell !  with  what  a  quiet  and  smiling 
air  the  dear  old  lady  would  take  up  a  quantity  of  the  powdered 
beef  on  the  flat  of  her  knife,  and  observe,  as  it  showered  softly 
down  to  the  tray  again,  that  "  meat  chopped  too  fine  for  mince 
as  sure  poison." 

Yes,  you  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Gray  at  this  very  time,  in 
order  to  appreciate  fully  the  perfections  of  an  old-fashioned 
New  England  housewife.  They  are  departing  from  the  land. 
Railroads  and  steamboats  are  sweeping  them  away.  In  a  little 
time,  providing  our  humble  tale  is  not  first  sent  to  oblivion, 
this  very  description  will  have  the  dignity  of  an  antique  sub- 
ject. Women  who  cook  their  own  dinners  and  take  care  of 
the  work  hands  are  getting  to  be  legendary  even  now. 

The  day  came  at  last,  bland  as  the  smile  of  a  warm  heart,  a 
breath  of  summer  seemed  whispering  with  the  over-ripe  leaves. 
The  sunshine  was  of  that  warm,  golden  yellow  which  belongs 
to  the  autumn.  A  few  hardy  flowers  glowed  in  the  front  yard, 
ri'-lily  tinted  dahlias,  marigolds,  chrysanthemums,  and  China-as- 
ters, with  the  most  velvety  amaranths,  still  kept  their  bloom, 
for  those  huge  old  maples  sheltered  them  like  a  tent,  and  flow- 
ers always  blossomed  later  in  that  house  than  elsewhere.  No 
wonder!  Inside  and  out,  all  was  pleasant  and  genial.  The 
fall  flowers  seemed  to  thrive  upon  Mrs.  Gray's  smiles.  Her 
rosy  countenance,  as  she  overlooked  them,  seemed  to  warm  up 
their  leaves  like  a  sunbeam.  Every  thimj  grew  and  brightened 
about  her.  Every  thing  combined  to  make  this  particular 
Thanksgiving  one  to  be  remembered. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  done  wonders  that  morning.  The  dinner  was 
in  a  most  hopeful  stale  of  ^reparation.  The  great  red  crested, 


406  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

imperious  looking  turkey,  that  had  strutted  away  his  brief  life 
in  the  barn-yard,  was  now  snugly  bestowed  in  the  oven — Mrs. 
Gray  had  not  yet  degenerated  down  to  a  cooking  stove — his 
heavy  coat  of  feathers  was  scattered  to  the  wind.  His  head, 
that  arrogant  crimson  head,  that  had  so  often  awed  the  whole 
poultry  yard,  lay  all  unheeded  in  the  dust,  close  by  the  horse- 
block. There  he  sat,  the  poor  denuded  monarch — turned  up  in 
a  dripping  pan,  simmering  himself  down  in  the  kitchen  oven. 
Never,  in  all  his  pomp,  had  that  bosom  been  so  warmed  and 
distended — yet  the  huge  turkey  had  been  a  sad  gourmand  in 
his  time.  A  rich  thymy  odor  broke  through  every  pore  of  his 
body ;  drops  of  luscious  gravy  dripped  down  his  sides,  filling  the 
oven  with  an  unctuous  stream  that  penetrated  a  crevice  in  the 
door,  and  made  the  poor  Irish  girl  cross  herself  devoutly.  She 
felt  her  spirit  so  yearning  after  the  good  things  of  earth,  and 
never  having  seen  Thanksgiving  set  down  in  the  calendar,  was 
shy  of  surrendering  her  heart  to  a  holiday  that  had  no  saint  to 
patronize  it. 

No  wonder !  the  odor  that  stole  so  insidiously  to  her  nostrils 
was  appetising,  for  the  turkey  had  plenty  of  companionship  in 
the  oven.  A  noble  chicken-pie  flanked  his  dripping  pan  on  the 
right;  a  delicate  sucking  pig  was  drawn  up  to  the  left  wing; 
in  the  rear  towered  a  mountain  of  roast  beef,  while  the  mouth 
of  the  oven  was  choked  up  with  a  generous  Indian  pudding. 
It  was  an  ovenful  worthy  of  New  England,  worthy  of  the  day. 

The  hours  came  creeping  on  when  guests  might  be  expected. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  ready  for  company,  and  tried  her  best  to  re- 
main with  proper  dignity  in  the  great  rocking  chair  that  she 
had  drawn  to  a  window  commanding  a  long  stretch  of  the 
road ;  but  every  few  moments  she  would  start  up,  bustle  across 
the  room,  and  charge  Kitty,  the  Irish  girl,  to  be  careful  and 
watch  the  oven,  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  sauce-pans  in  the 
fire-place,  and,  above  all,  to  have  the  mince  pies  within  range  of 
the  fire,  that  they  might  receive  a  gradual  and  gentle  warmth 
by  the  time  they  were  wanted.  Then  she  would  return  to  the 
room,  arrange  the  branches  of  asparagus  that  hung  laden  with 
red  berries  over  the  looking-glass,  or  dust  the  spotless  table 
with  her  handkerchief,  just  to  keep  herself  busy,  as  she  said. 

At  last  she  heard  the  distant  sound  of  a  wagon,  turning  down 
the  cross  road  toward  the  house.  She  knew  the  tramp  of  her 
own  market  horse  even  at  that  distance,  and  seated  herself  by 
the  window  ready  to  receive  her  expected  guests  with  becoming 
dignity. 


THE    LADIKS'    READER.  407 

The  little  one-horse  wagon  came  down  the  road  with  a  sort 
of  dash  quite  honorable  to  the  occasion.  Mrs  Gray's  hired 
man  was  beginning  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  holiday ;  and 
the  old  horse  himself  made  every  thing  rattle  again,  Jbe  was  so 
eager  to  reach  home  the  moment  it  hove  in  sight. 

The  wagon  drew  up  to  the  door  yard  gate  with  a  flourish 
worthy  of  the  Third  avenue.  The  hired  man  sprang  out,  and 
with  some  show  of  awkward  gallantry,  lifted  a  young  girl  in  a 
pretty  pink  calico  dress  and  a  cottage  bonnet,  down  from  the 
front  seat.  Mrs.  Gray  could  maintain  her  position  no  longer ; 
for  the  young  girl  glanced  that  way  with  a  look  so  eloquent,  a 
smile  so  bright,  that  it  warmed  the  dear  old  lady's  heart  like  a 
llasli  of  fire  in  the  winter  time.  She  started  up,  hastily  shook 
loose  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  went  out,  rustling  all  the  way 
like  a  tree  in  autumn. 

"  You  are  welcome,  dear,  welcome  as  green  peas  in  June,  or 
tea  in  March,"  she  cried,  seizing  the  little  hand  held 
toward  her,  and  kissing  the  heavenly  young  face. 

Tin-  inrl  turned  with  a  bright  look,  and  making  a  graceful 
little  wave  of  the  hand  toward  an  aged  man  who  was  tenderly 
helping  a  female  from  the  wagon,  seemed  about  to  speak. 

••  I  understand,  dear,  I  know  all  about  it !  the  good  old  peo- 
ple— grandpa  and  grandma,  of  course.  How  could  I  help 
knowing  them  '"  Mrs.  Gray  went  up  to  the  old  people  as  she 
spoke,  with  a  bland  welcome  in  every  feature  of  her  face. 

"  Know  them,  of  course  I  do !"  she  said,  enfolding  the  old 
gentleman's  hand  with  her  plump  fingers.  "I — I — gracious 
goodness,  now,  it  really  does  seem  as  if  I  had  seen  that  face 
-"UH-whcre  !"  she  added  hesitating,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed 
doubtingly  on  the  stranger,  as  if  she  were  calling  up  some  vague 
remembrance,  "  strange,  now  isn't  it  ?  but  he  looks  natural  as 
life." 

The  old  man  turned  a  warming  glance  toward  his  wife,  and 
then  answered,  with  a  grave  smile  "  that,  at  any  rate,  Mrs.  Gray 
«'"iild  never  be  a  stranger  to  them,  she  who  had  done  so  much — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  one  of  her  mellow  laughs.  Thanks 
for  a  kind  act  always  made  the  good  woman  feel  awkward,  and 
>ln-  blushed  like  a  girl. 

All  truly  benevolent  persons  shrink  from  spoken  thanks.  The 
^mtitudc  expressed  by  looks  and  actions  may  give  pleasure,  but 
there  is  something  too  material  in  words — they  destroy  all  the 
refinement  of  a  generous  action.  Good  Mrs.  Gray  felt  this  the 
more  sensitively,  because  her  own  words  had  seemed  to  chal- 


408  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

lenge  the  thanks  of  her  guest.  The  color  came  into  her  smooth 
cheek,  and  she  began  to  arrange  the  folds  of  her  dress  with  both 
hands,  exhibiting  a  degree  of  awkwardness  quite  unusual  to 
her.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes  again,  they  fell  upon  a  young 
man  coming  down  the  cross  road  on  foot,  with  an  eager  and 
buoyant  step. 

"There  he  comes;  I  thought  he  would  not  be  long  on  the 
way,"  she  cried,  while  a  flash  of  gladness  radiated  her  face. 
"It's  my  nephew;  you  see  him  there,  Mrs.  Warren — no  the 
maple  branch  is  in  the  way  !  Here  he  is  again — now  look  !  a 
noble  fellow,  isn't  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Warren  looked,  and  was  indeed  struck  by  the  free  air 
and  superior  appearance  of  the  youth.  He  had  evidently 
walked  some  distance,  for  a  light  over-sacqe  hung  across  his  arm, 
and  his  face  was  flushed  with  exercise.  Seeing  his  aunt,  the 
boy  waved  his  hand ;  his  lips  parted  in  a  joyous  smile,  and  he 
hastened  his  pace  almost  to  a  run. 

Mrs.  Gray's  little  brown  eyes  glistened  ;,  she  coald  not  turn 
them  fi  om  the  youth  even  while  addressing  her  guest. 

"  Isn't  he  handsome  ?  and  good — you  have  no  idea,  ma'am, 
how  good  he  is !  There,  that  is  just  like  him,  the  wild  crea- 
ture !"  she  continued,  as  the  youth  laid  one  hand  upon  the  door 
yard  fence,  and  vaulted  over,  "  right  into  my  flower-beds,  tramp- 
ling over  the  grass  there — did  you  ever? 

44  Couldn't  help  it,  Aunt  Sarah,"  shouted  the  youth,  with  a 
careless  laugh,  "  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  and  the  gate  is  too 
far  off.  Three  kisses  for  every  flower  I  tramp  down — will 
that  do  ?  Ha,  what  little  lady  is  this  ?" 

The  last  exclamation  was  drawn  forth  by  Julia  Warren,  who 
had  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  largest  maple,  and  with 
her  lap  full  of  flowers,  was  arranging  them  into  bouquets.  On 
hearing  Robert's  voice  she  looked  up  with  a  glance  of  pleasant 
surprise,  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  lips.  There  was  something 
so  rosy  and  joyous  in  his  face,  and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
that  it  rippled  through  her  heart  as  if  a  bird  overhead  had  just 
broken  into  song.  The  youth  looked  upon  her  for  a  moment  with 
his  bright,  gleeful  eyes,  then,  throwing  off  his  hat  and  sweeping 
back  the  damp  chestnut  curls  from  his  forehead,  he  sat  down  by 
her  side,  and  cast  a  glance  of  laughing  defiance  at  his  relative. 

"  Come  out  here  and  get  the  kisses,  Aunt  Sarah,  1  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  stay  among  the  flowers !" 

Mrs.  Gray  laughed  at  the  young  rogue's  impudence,  as  she 
nailed  it.  and  came  out  to  meet  him. 


TUE  LADIES'  READER.  400 

At  that  moment  the  Irish  girl  came  through  the  front  door 
with  an  expression  of  solemn  import  in  her  face.  She  whis- 
pered in  a  flustered  manner  to  her  mistress,  and  the  words 
"  spoilt  entirely"  reached  Robert's  ear. 

A  way  went  the  aunt,  all  in  a  state  of  excitement,  to  the  kitchen. 

Whatever  mischief  had  happened  in  the  kitchen,  the  dinner 
turned  out  magnificently.  The  turkey  came  upon  the  table  a 
perfect  miracle  of  cookery.  The  pig  absolutely  looked  more 
beautiful  than  life,  crouching  in  his  bed  of  parsely,  with  his 
h  ad  up,  and  holding  a  lemon  daintily  between  his  jaws.  The 
chicken  pie,  pinched  around  the  edge  into  a  perfect  embroidery 
by  the  two  plump  thumbs  of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  then  finished  off 
by  an  elaborate  border  done  in  key  work,  would  have  charmed 
the  most  fastidious  artist. 

You  have  no  idea,  reader  mine,  how  beautiful  colors  may  be 
blended  on  a  dinner  table,  unless  you  have  seen  just  the  kind  of 
feast  to  which  Mrs.  Gray  invited  her  guests.  The  rich  brown 
of  the  meats ;  the  snow-white  bread  ;  the  fresh,  golden  butter ; 
the  cranberry  sauce,  with  its  bright,  ruby  tinge,  were  daintily 
mingled  with  plates  of  pies,  arranged  after  a  most  tempting 
fashion.  Golden  custard  ;  the  deep  red  tart ;  the  brown  mince 
and  tawny  orange  color  of  the  pumpkin,  were  placed  in  alternate 
wedges  and  radiating  from  the  centre  of  each  plate  like  a  star, 
stood  at  equal  distances  round  the  table.  Water  sparkling  from 
the  well;  currant  wine  brilliantly  red — contrasted  with  the 
sheeted  snow  of  the  table-cloth ;  and  the  gleam  of  crystal;  then 
that  old  arm-chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  its  soft  crimson 
cushions.  I  tell  you  again,  reader,  it  was  a  Thanksgiving  dinner 
worthy  to  be  remembered.  That  poor  family  from  the  misera- 
ble basement  in  New  York,  did  remember  it  for  many  a  weary 
day  after.  Mrs.  Gray  remembered  it,  for  she  had  given  delicious 
pleasure  to  those  old  people.  She  had,  for  that  one  day  at  least, 
lifted  them  from  their  toil  and  depression.'' 


- 

Till;  UMATII  01'  LEONIDAS.-RBV.  GEOKGB  CHOLY. 

It  was  the  wild  midnight, — a  storm  was  in  the  sky, 
The  lightning  gave  its  light,  and  the  thunder  echoed  by; 
The  torrent  swept  the  glen,  the  ocean  lashed  the  shore, 
Then  rose  the  Spartan  men,  to  make  their  bed  in  gore  ! 
18 


410  THE   LADIES'  READEtt. 

Swift  from  the  deluged  ground,  three  hundred  took  the  shield; 

Then,  silent,  gatherd  round  the  leader  of  the  field. 

He  spoke  no  warrior- word,  he  bade  no  trumpet  blow; 

But  the  signal  thunder  roar'd,  and  they  rush'd  upon  the  foe. 

The  fiery  element,  show'd,  with  one  mighty  gleam, 
Kampart  and  flag,  and  tent,  like  the  spectres  of  a  dream. 
All  up  the  mountain  side,  all  down  the  woody  vale, 
All  by  the  rolling  tide,  waved  the  Persian  banners  pale. 

And  king  Leonidas,  among  the  slumbering  band, 
Sprang  foremost  fr*m  the  pass,  like  the  lightning's  living  brand ; 
Then  double  darkness  fell,  and  the  forest  ceased  to  moan, 
But  there  came  a  clash  of  steel,  and  a  distant  dying  groan. 

Anon,  a  trumpet  blew,  and  a  fiery  sheet  burst  high, 

That  o'er  the  midnight  threw,  a  blood-red  canopy. 

A  host  glared  on  the  hill :  a  host  glared  by  the  bay ; 

But  the  Greeks  rush'd  onward  still,  like  leopards  in  their  play. 

The  air  was  all  a  yell,  and  the  earth  was  all  a  flame, 
Where  the  Spartan's  bloody  steel  on  the  silken  turbans  came ; 
And  still  the  Greek  rushed  on,  beneath  the  fiery  fold, 
Till,  like  a  rising  sun,  shone  Xerxes'  tent  of  gold. 

They  found  a  royal  feast,  his  midnight  banquet,  there ! 
And  the  treasures  of  the  East  lay  beneath  the  Doric  spear. 
Then  sat  to  the  repast,  the  bravest  of  the  brave  1 
That  feast  must  be  their  last,  that  spot  must  be  their  grave. 

They  pledged  old  Sparta's  name  in  cups  of  Syrian  wine. 
And  the  warrior's  deathless  fame,  was  sung  in  strains  divine. 
They  took  the  rose-wreath'd  lyres  from  ev'ry  cringing  slave, 
And  taught  the  languid  wires  the  sounds  that  freedom  gave. 

But  now  the  morning  star  crown'd  (Eta's  twilight  brow, 
And  the  Persian  horn  of  war  from  the  hill  began  to  blow ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  rank,  to  Greece  one  cup  pour'd  high, 
Then,  hand  in  hand,  they  drank — "  To  Immortality  I" 

Fear  on  King  Xerxes  fell,  when,  like  spirits  from  the  tomb, 
"With  shout  and  trumpet  knell,  he  saw  the  warriors  come ; 
But  down  swept  all  his  power,  with  chariot  and  with  charge ; 
Down  pour'd  the  arrowy  shower,  till  sank  the  Dorian's  targe. 

They  march'd  within  the  tent,  with  all  their  strength  unstrung: 
To  Greece  one  look  they  sent,  then  on  high  their  torches  flung ; 
To  heaven  the  blaze  uproll'd,  like  a  mighty  altar-fire; 
And  the  Persians'  gems  and  gold  were  the  Grecians'  funeral  pyre. 

Their  king  sat  on  the  throne,  his  captains  by  his  side, 
"While  the  flame  rush'd  roaring  on,  and  their  prean  loud  replied ! 
Thus  fought  the  Greek  of  old !     Thus  will  he  fight  again ! 
Shall  not  the  self-same  mould  bring  forth  the  self-same  men  ? 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  41 1 


THE  PILGRIM'S  YISION.-OLIYEB  WENDELL  HOLMES 

I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast — 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast : 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo !  the  vision  passed. 

Again  mine  eyes  were  opened — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong ; 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng. 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 

They  slept — the  village  fathers — 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
"When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more : 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour ; 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye : 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try; 
"God  for  the  right!"  I  faltered, 

And  lo!  the  train  passed  by. 

Once  more;  the  strife  was  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried ; 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

Had  helped  our  Israel's  side : 
.Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock, 

Told  where  her  martyrs  died ; 
And  peace  was  in  the  borders 

Of  victory's  chosen  bride. 

A  crash . .  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these? 


412  THE   LADIES'  HEADER. 

I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 
Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas ; 

But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 
Eoll  out  before  the  breeze? 

Ah!  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

"Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell. 
And  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell ! 

0,  trembling  Faith !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine ; 
"While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine ! 

I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on, 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  "land  of  flowers;" 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  Northern  showers — 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours ! 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown: 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown ; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth — 

His  menory  lives  alone. 


TIIK  LADIES'   READER,  413 


THE  HUXTER-A  LEGEXD.-J.  G.  WHITTIEK. 

The  hunter  went  forth  with  his  dog  and  gun, 
In  the  earliest  glow  of  the  golden  sun ; 
The  trees  of  the  forest  bent  over  his  way, 
In  the  changeful  colors  of  autumn  gay ; 
For  a  frost  had  fallen,  the  night  before, 
On  the  quiet  greenness  which  nature  wore :  — 

A  bitter  frost! — for  the  night  was  chill, 
And  starry  and  dark,  and  the  wind  was  still ; 
And  so,  when  the  sun  looked  out  on  the  hills, 
On  the  stricken  woods  and  the  frosted  rills, 
The  unvaried  green  of  the  landscape  fled, 
And  a  wild,  rich  robe  was  given  instead. 

We  know  not  whither  the  hunter  went, 

Or  how  the  last  of  his  days  was  spent; 

For  the  noon  drew  nigh — but  he  came  not  back, 

"Weary  and  faint,  from  his  forest  track ; 

And  the  wife  sat  down  to  her  frugal  board, 

Beside  the  empty  seat  of  her  lord. 

And  the  day  passed  on,  and  the  sun  came  down 
To  the  hills  of  the  west  like  an  angel's  crown ; 
The  shadows  lengthened  from  wood  and  hill, 
The  mist  crept  up  from  the  meadow-rill, 
Till  the  broad  sun  sank,  arid  the  red  light  rolled 
All  over  the  west  like  a  wave  of  gold. 

Yet  he  came  not  back — though  the  stars  gave  forth 

Their  wizard  light  to  the  silent  earth ; 

And  his  wife  looked  out  from  the  lattice  dim 

In  the  earnest  manner  of  fear  for  him; 

And  his  fair-haired  child  on  the  door-stone  stood 

To  welcome  his  father  back  from  the  wood ! 

He  came  not  back — yet  they  found  him  soon 
In  the  burning  light  of  the  morrow's  noon, 
In  the  fixed  and  visionless  sleep  of  death, 
Where  the  red  leaves  fall  at  the  soft  wind's  breath; 
And  the  dog,  whose  step  in  the  chase  was  fleet, 
Crouched  silent  and  sad  at  the  hunter's  feet. 

He  slept  in  death ; — but  his  sleep  was  one 

Which  his  neighbors  shuddered  to  look  upon: 

For  his  brow  was  black,  and  his  open  eye 

Was  red  with  the  sign  of  agony ; — 

And  they  thought,  as  they  gazed  on  his  features  grim 

That  an  evil  deed  had  been  done  on  him. 


414  THE   LADIES'  READER. 

They  buried  him  where  his  fathers  laid, 
By  the  mossy  mounds  in  the  grave-yard  shade; 
Yet  whispers  of  doubt  passed  over  the  dead, 
And  beldames  muttered  while  prayers  were  said ; 
And  the  hand  of  the  sexton  shook  as  he  pressed 
The  damp  earth  down  on  the  hunter's  breast. 

The  seasons  passed ;  and  the  autumn  ram 
And  the  colored  forest  returned  again  : 
'Twas  the  very  eve  that  the  hunter  died  : 
The  winds  wailed  over  the  bare  hill-side, 
And  the  wreathing  limbs  of  the  forest  shook 
Their  red  leaves  over  the  swollen  brook. 

There  came  a  sound  on  the  night-air  then, 

Like  a  spirit-shriek  to  the  homes  of  men, 

And  louder  and  shriller  it  rose  again, 

Like  the  fearful  cry  of  the  mad  with  pain; 

And  trembled  alike  the  timid  and  brave, 

For  they  knew  that  it  came  from  the  hunter's  grave  ; 

And,  every  year,  when  autumn  flings 
Its  beautiful  robe  on  created  things, 
When  Piscataqua's  tide  is  turbid  with  rain, 
And  Cocheco's  woods  are  yellow  again, 
That  cry  is  heard  from  the  grave-yard  earth, 
Like  the  howl  of  a  demon  struggling  forth. 


LOVE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL-Jonx  BUSKIN. 

It  has  been  said  by  Schiller,  in  his  letters  on  aesthetic  culture, 
that  u  the  sense  of  beauty  never  farthered  the  performance  of  a 
single  duty." 

Although  this  gross  and  inconceivable  falsity  will  hardly  be 
accepted  by  any  one  in  so  many  terms,  seeing  that  there  are 
few  so  utterly  lost  but  that  they  receive,  and  know  that  they 
receive,  at  certain  moments,  strength  of  some  kind,  or  rebuke 
from  the  appealings  of  outward  things  ;  and  that  it  is  not  pos- 
sible for  a  Christian  man  to  walk  across  so  much  as  a  rood  of 
the  natural  earth,  with  mind  unagitated  and  rightly  poised,  with- 
out receiving  strength  and  hope  from  some  stone,  flower,  leaf, , 
nor  sound,  nor  without  a  sense  of  a  dew  falling  upon  him  out  of  j 
the  sky;  though  I  say,  this  falsity  is  not  wholly  and  in  terms 
admitted,  yet  it  seems  to  be  partly  and  practically  so  in  much  of 
the  doing  and  teaching  even  of  holy  men,  who  in  the  recom- 


THE   LADIES'  READER.  415 

mending  of  the  love  of  God  to  us,  refer  but  seldom  to  those 
things  in  which  it  is  most  abundantly  and  immediately  shown ; 
though  they  insist  much  on  his  giving  of  bread,  and  raiment, 
and  health,  (which  he  gives  to  all  inferior  creatures,)  they  re- 
quire us  not  to  thank  him  for  that  glory  of  his  works  which 
he  has  permitted  us  alone  to  perceive ;  they  tell  us  often  to 
meditate  in  the  closet,  but  they  send  us  not,  like  Isaac,  into 
the  fields  at  even,  they  dwell  on  the  duty  of  self-denial,  but 
they  exhibit  not  the  duty  of  delight.  Now,  there  are  reasons 
for  this,  manifold,  in  the  toil  and  warfare  of  an  earnest  mind, 
which,  in  its  efforts  at  the  raising  of  men  from  utter  loss  and 
misery,  has  often  but  little  time  or  disposition  to  take  heed  of 
anything  more  than  the  bare  life,  and  of  those  so  occupied  it  is 
not  for  us  to  judge  ;  but  I  think,  that,  of  the  weaknesses,  dis- 
tresses, vanities,  schisms,  and  sins,  which  often,  even  in  the  ho- 
liest men,  diminish  their  usefulness  and  mar  their  happiness, 
there  would  be  fewer,  if,  in  their  struggle  with  nature  fallen,  they 
sought  for  more  aid  from  nature  undestroyed.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  real  sources  of  bluntness  in  the  feelings  toward  the 
splendor  of  the  grass  and  glory  of  the  flower,  are  less  to  be 
found  in  ardor  of  occupation,7in  seriousness  of  compassion,  or 
heavenliness  of  desire,  than  in  the  turning  of  the  eye  at  inter- 
vals of  rest  too  selfishly  within  ;  the  want  of  power  to  shake  off" 
the  anxieties  of  actual  and  near  interest,  and  to  leave  results 
in  God's  hands ;  the  scorn  of  all  that  does  not  seem  immedi- 
ately apt  for  our  purposes,  or  open  to  our  understanding,  and 
perhaps  something  of  pride,  which  desires  rather  to  investigate 
than  to  feel.  At  all  events,  whatever  may  be  the  inability  in 
this  present  life  to  mingle  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  Divine 
works  with  the  full  discharge  of  every  practical  duty,  and  con- 
fessedly in  many  cases  this  must  be,  let  us  not  attribute  the 
inconsistency  to  any  indignity  of  the  faculty  of  contemplation, 
but  to  the  sin  and  the  suffering  of  the  fallen  state,  and  the  change 
of  order  from  the  keeping  of  the  garden  to  the  tilling  of  the 
ground.  We  cannot  say  how  far  it  is  right  or  agreeable  with 
<  i'-l's  will,  while  men  are  perishing  round  about  us,  while  grief, 
and  pain,  and  wrath,  and  impiety,  and  death,  and  all  the  powers 
of  the  air,  are  working  wildly  and  evermore,  and  the  cry  of 
blood  going  up  to  heaven,  that  any  of  us  should  take  hand  from 
the  plough ;  but  this  we  know,  that  there  will  come  a  time 
when  the  service  of  God  shall  be  the  beholding  of  him ;  and 
though  in  these  stormy  seas,  where  we  are  now  driven  up  and 
down,  his  Spirit  is  dimly  seen  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  we 


416  Till:  I.AL'JKS'    READER. 

are  left  to  cast  anchors  out  of  the  stern,  and  wish  for  the  clav, 
that  day  will  come,  when  with  the  evangelists  on  the  crystal  and 
stable  sea,  all  the  creatures  of  God  shall  be  full  of  eyes  within, 
and  there  shall  be  "no  more  curse,  but  his  servants  shall  serve 
him,  and  shall  see  his  face." 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  JUNE.— JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Oh !  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays: 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  grasping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  or  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  egg  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back,  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  so  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade,  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing. 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 


TMK    LAWKS'    UKADKH. 

And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifers  lowing— 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how: 
Every  thing  is  happy  now, 

Every  thing  is  upward  striving; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue — 

'Tis  the  natural  way  of  living : 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake ;  • 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache : 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 
Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 


THi;  CONSTANCY  OF  NATURE— RICHARD  H.  DANA. 

How  like  eternity  doth  nature  seem 
To  life  of  man — that  short  and  fitful  dream! 
I  look  around  me ;  nowhere  can  I  trace 
Lines  of  decay  that  mark  our  human  race. 
These  are  the  murmuring  waters,  these  the  flowers 
I  mused  o'er  in  ray  earlier,  better  hours. 
Like  sounds  and  scents  of  yesterday  they  come. 
Long  years  have  past  since  this  was  last' my  home  ! 
And  I  am  weak,  and  toil-worn  is  my  frame ; 
But  all  this  vale  shuts  in  is  still  the  same: 
'Tis  I  alone  am  changed ;  they  know  me  not : 
I  feel  a  stranger — or  as  one  forgot. 

The  breeze  that  cooled  my  warm  and  youthful  brow 
Breathes  the  same  freshness  on  its  wrinkles  now. 
The  leaves  that  flung  around  me  sun  and  shade, 
Whilu  prn/.ing  idly  on  them,  as  they  played, 
Are  holding  yet  their  frolic  in  the  air; 
The  motion,  joy,  and  beauty  still  are  there 
But  not  for  me ! — I  look  upon  the  ground : 
Myriads  of  happy  faces  throng  me  round, 
Familiar  to  my  eye ;  yet  heart  and  mind 
In  vain  would  now  the  old  communion  find. 
Ye  were  as  living,  conscious  beings  then. 
With  whom  I  talked — but  I  have  talked  with  men! 
With  uncheered  sorrow,  with  cold  hearts  I've  met; 

:ionest  minds  by  hardened  craft  beset; 

liope  cast  down,  turn  deathly  pale  its  glow ; 
Seen  virtue  rare,  but  more  of  virtue's  show. 

27 


418  THE  LADIES'  READER. 


ON  VIILGAMTY  AND  AFFECTATION.-WiiLiAM  HAZLITT. 

Few  subjects  are  more  nearly  allied  than  these  two — vulgar- 
ity and  affectation.  It  may  be  said  of  them  truly  that  "  thin 
partitions  do  their  bounds  divide."  There  cannot  be  a  surer 
proof  of  a  low  origin  or  of  an  innate  meanness  of  disposition, 
than  to  be  always  talking  and  thinking  of  being  genteel.  We 
must  have  a  strong  tendency  to  that  which  we  are  always  try- 
ing to  avoid ;  whenever  we  pretend,  on  all  occasions,  a  mighty 
contempt  for  anything,  it  is  a  pretty  clear  sign  that  we  feei  our- 
selves very  nearly  on  a  level  with  it.  Of  the  two  classes  of 
people,  I  hardly  know  which  is  to  be  regarded  with  most  distaste, 
the  vulgar  aping  the  genteel,  or  the  genteel  constantly  sneering 
at,  and  endeavoring  to  distinguish  themselves  from  the  vulgar. 
These  two  sets  of  persons  are  always  thinking  of  one  another ; 
the  lower  of  the  higher  with  envy,  the  more  fortunate  of  their 
less  happy  neighbors  with  contempt.  They  are  habitually 
placed  in  opposition  to  each  other ;  jostle  in  their  pretensions 
at  every  turn  ;  and  the  same  objects  and  train  of  thought  (only 
reserved  by  the  relative  situation  of  either  party,)  occupy  their 
whole  time  and  attention.  The  one  are  straining  every  nerve 
and  outraging  common  sense,  to  be  thought  genteel ;  the  others 
have  no  other  object  or  idea  in  their  heads  than  not  to  be  thought 
vulgar.  This  is  but  poor  spite  ;  a  very  pitiful  style  of  ambition. 
To  be  merely  not  that  which  one  heartily  despises,  is  a  very 
humble  claim  to  superiority :  to  despise  what  one  really  is,  is 
still  worse. 

Gentility  is  only  a  more  select  and  artificial  kind  of  vulgarity. 
It  cannot  exist  but  by  a  sort  of  borrowed  distinction.  It  plumes 
itself  up  and  revels  in  the  homely  pretensions  of  the  mass  of 
mankind.  It  judges  of  the  worth  of  every  thing  by  name,  fash- 
ion, opinion ;  and  hence,  from  the  conscious  absence  of  real 
qualities,  or  sincere  satisfaction  in  itself,  it  builds  its  supercil- 
ious and  fantastic  conceit  on  the  wretchedness  and  wants  of 
others.  Violent  antipathies  are  always  suspicious,  and  betray 
a  secret  affinity.  The  difference  between  the  "  Great  Vulgar 
and  the  Small"  is  mostly  in  outward  circumstances.  The  cox- 
comb criticises  the  dress  of  the  clown,  as  the  pedant  cavils  at 
the  bad  grammar  of  the  illiterate.  Those  who  have  the  few- 
est resources  in  themselves,  naturally  seek  the  food  of  their 
self-love  elsewhere.  The  most  ignorant  people  find  most  to 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER.  419 

laugh  at  in  strangers  :  scandal  and  satire  prevail  most  in  coun- 
try places ;  and  a,  propensity  to  ridicule  every  the  slightest 
or  most  palpable  deviation  from  what  we  happen  to  approve, 
ceases  with  the  progress  of  common  sense  and  decency.  True 
worth  does  not  exult  in  the  faults  and  deficiency  of  others  ;  as 
true  refinement  turns  away  from  Crossness  and  deformity,  instead 
of  being  tempted  to  indulge  in  an  unmanly  triumph  over  it. 
Kaphael  would  not  faint  away  at  the  daubing  of  a  sign-post,  nor 
Homer  hold  his  head  the  higher  fof  being  in  the  company  of  a 
<i  rub-street  bard.  Real  power,  real  excellence  does  not  seek 
for  a  foil  in  imperfection  ;  nor  fear  contamination -from  coming 
in  contact  with  that  which  is  coarse  and  homely.  It  reposes  on 
itself,  and  is  equally  free  from  spleen  and  affectation.  But  the 
spirit  of  gentility  is  the  mere  essence  of  spleen  and  affectation ; 
— of  affected  delight  in  its  own  would-be  qualifications,  and  of 
ineffable  disdain  poured  out  upon  the  involuntary  blunders  or 
ai-ridfiital  disadvantages  of  those  whom  it  chooses  to  treat  as 
its  inferiors. 


I  i,S.— ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


Hearken,  hearken ! 
The  rapid  river  carrieth 
Many  noises  underneath 

The  hoary  ocean ; 
Teaching  his  solemnity, 
Sounds  of  inland  life  and  glee, 
Learnt  beside  the  waving  tree, 
AVI ic- n  the  winds  in  summer  prank 
Toss  the  shades  from  bank  to  bank, 
And  the  quick  rains,  in  emotion 
Which  rather  glads  than  grieves, 
Count  and  visibly  rehearse 
The  pulses  of  the  universe 
Upon  the  summer  leaves — 
Learnt  among  the  lilies  straight, 
When  they  bow  them  to  the  weight 
Of  many  bees,  whose  hidden  hum 
Seemeth  from  themselves  to  come— 
Learnt  among  the  grasses  green, 
Win  TO  the  rustling  mice  are  seen, 
By  the  gleaming,  as  they  run, 
Of  their  quirk  eyes  in  the  sun; 
And  la/.y  she-op  are  browzing  through, 
With  their  imscs  trailed  in  dew; 


420  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

And  the  squirrel  leaps  adown. 
Holding  fast  the  filbert  brown ; 
And  the  lark,  with  more  of  mirth 
In  his  song  that  suiteth  earth, 
Droppeth  some  in  soaring  high. 
To  pour  the  rest  out  in  the  sky : 
While  the  woodland  doves,  apart 
In  the  copse's  leafy  heart, 
Solitary  not  ascetic, 
Hidden  and  yet  vocal,  seem 
Joining,  in  a  lovely  psalm, 
Man's  despondence,  nature's  calm, 
Half  mystical  and  half  pathetic, 
Like  a  sighing  in  a  dream. 
All  these  sounds  the  river  telleth, 
Softened  to  an  undertone 
Which  ever  and  anon  he  swelleth 
By  a  burden  of  his  own, 

In  the  ocean's  ear, 
Ay !  and  ocean  seems  to  hear, 
With  an  inward  gentle  scorn, 
Smiling  to  his  caverns  worn. 

ii. 

Hearken,  hearken! 
The  child  is  shouting  at  his  play 
Just  in  the  tramping  funeral's  way ; 
The  widow  moans  as  she  turns  aside 
To  shun  the  face  of  the  blushing  bride, 
While,  shaking  the  tower  of  the  ancient  church, 
The  marriage  bells  do  swing ; 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch 
An  idiot  sits,  with  his  lean  hands  full 
Of  hedgerow  flowers  and  a  poet's  skull, 
Laughing  loud  and  gibbering, 
Because  it  is  so  brown  a  thing, 
While  he  sticketh  the  gaudy  poppies  red 
In  and  out  the  senseless  head, 
Where  all  sweet  fancies  grew  instead. 
And  you  may  hear,  at  the  self-same  time, 
Another  poet  who  reads  his  rhyme, 
Low  as  a  brook  in  the  summer  air — 
Save  when  he  droppeth  his  voice  adown, 
To  dream  of  the  amaranthine  crown 
His  mortal  brows  shall  wear. 
And  a  baby  cries  with  a  feeble  sound 
'Neath  the  weary  weight  of  the  life  new-found ; 
And  an  old  man  groans — witli  his  testament 
Only  half  signed — for  the  life  that's  spent; 
And  lovers  twain  do  softly  say, 
As  they  sit  on  a  grave,  "for  aye,  for  aye!" 
And  foeman  twain,  while  Earth,  their  mother, 
Looks  greenly  upward,  curse  each  other. 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER. 

A  school-boy  drones  his  task,  with  looks 

Cast  over  the  page  to  the  elm-tree  rooks : 

A  lonely  student  cries  aloud, 

Eureka!  clasping  at  his  shroud; 

A  beldame's  age-cracked  voice  doth  sing 

To  a  little  infant  slumbering : 

A  maid  forgotten  weeps  alone, 

Muffling  her  sobs  on  the  trysting-stone ; 

A  sick  man  wakes  at  his  own  mouth's  wail ; 

A  gossip  coughs  in  her  thrice-told  tale ; 

A  muttering  gamester  shakes  the  dice ; 

A  reaper  foretells  good-luck  from  the  skies  ; 

A  monarch  vows  as  he  lifts  his  hand  to  them; 

A  patriot  leaving  his  native  land  to  them, 

Invokes  the  world  against  perjured  state ; 

A  priest  disserts  upon  linen  skirts ; 

A  sinner  screams  for  one  hope  more ; 

A  dancer's  feet  do  palpitate 

A  piper's  music  out  on  the  floor ; 

And  nigh  to  the  awful  Dead,  the  living 

Low  speech  and  stealthy  steps  are  giving, 

•  •he  cannot  hear; 
And  he  who  on  that  narrow  bier 
Has  room  enow,  is  closely  wound 
In  a  silence  piercing  more  than  sound. 

in. 
Hearken,  hearken! 

God  speaketh  to  thy  soul ; 
Using  the  supreme  voice  which  doth  confound 
All  life  with  consciousness  of  Deity, 

All  senses  into  one ; 
As  the  seer-saint  of  Patmos,  loving  John, 

For  whom  did  backward  roll 
The  cloud-gate  of  the  future,  turned  to  see 
The  Voice  which  spake.     It  speaketh  now — 
Through  the  regular  breath  of  the  calm  creation, 
Through  the  moan  of  the  creature's  desolation, 
Striking,  and  in  its  stroke  resembling 
The  memory  of  a  solemn  vow, 
Which  pierceth  the  din  of  a  festival 
To  one  in  the  midst— and  he  letteth  fall 
The  cup,  with  a  sudden  trembling. 

IV. 

Hearken,  hearken ! 

God  speaketh  in  thy  soul; 

Saying,  "  0  thou,  that  movest 
With  feeble  steps  across  this  earth  of  mine, 
To  break  beside  the  fount  thy  golden  bowl 

And  spill  its  purple  wine — 
Look  up  to  heaven  and  see  how  like  a  scroll, 


422  THE  LADIES'  READER. 

My  right  hand  hath  thine  immortality 
In  an  eternal  grasping  I     Thou,  that  lovest 
The  songful  birds  and  grasses  underfoot, 
And  also  what  change  mars,  and  tombs  pollute — 
/  am  the  end  of  love ! — give  love  to  me  ! 
0  thou  that  sinnest,  grace  doth  more  abound 
Than  all  thy  sin !  sit  still  beneath  my  rood, 
And  count  the  droppings  of  my  victim-blood, 
And  seek  none  other  sound!" 

v. 

Hearken,  hearken ! 
Shall  we  hear  the  lapsing  river 
And  our  brother's  sighing,  ever, 
And  not  the  voice  of  God  ? 


THE  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN -GOLDSMITH  . 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smil'd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place  ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion' d  to  the  varying  hour : 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their  pain ; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
"Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast : 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe : 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 


THE  LADIES'  HEADER.  423 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all ; 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  eacli  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 

Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood."    At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
E'en  children  folio  w'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 
Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  distrest ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 


ON  TIEE  BEING  OF  A  GOD -YOUNG. 

Retire; — the  world  shut  out — thy  thoughts  call  home! 

Imagination's  airy  wing  repress ; 

Lock  up  thy  senses; — let  no  passion  stir; — 

Wake  all  to  Reason ; — let  her  reign  alone ; — 

Then,  in  thy  soul's  deep  silence,  and  the  depth 

Of  nature's  silence, — midnight,  thus  inquire, 

As  I  have  done;  and  shall  inquire  no  more. 

In  Nature's  channel,  thus  the  questions  run. 

What  am  I  ?  and  from  whence  ?  I  nothing  know, 
But  that  I  am ;  and  since  I  am,  conclude 
Something  eternal.     Had  there  e'er  been  nought, 
Nought  still  had  been;  eternal  there  must  be. 
But  what  eternal? — why  not  human  race; 
And  Adam's  ancestors  without  an  end? 
That's  hard  to  be  conceived:  since  every  link 


424  THE  LADIES'    READER. 

Of  that  long-chained  succession  is  so  frail : 

Can  every  part  depend,  and  not  the  whole  ? 

Yet  grant  it  true,  new  difficulties  rise  : 

I'm  still  quite  out  at  sea,  nor  see  the  shore. 

"Whence  earth,  and  these  bright  orbs  ? — eternal  too  ?- 

Grant  matter  was  eternal ;  still  these1  orbs 

Would  want  some  other  father.     Much  design 

Is  seen  in  all  their  motions,  all  their  makes. 

Design  implies  intelligence  and  art ; 

That  can't  be  from  themselves — or  man ;  that  art 

Man  scarce  can  comprehend,  could  man  below  ? 

And  nothing  greater,  yet  allowed  than  man. — 

Who,  motion,  foreign  to  the  smallest  grain, 

Shot  through  vast  masses  of  enormous  weight? 

Who  bade  brute  matter's  restive  lump  assume 

Such  various  forms,  and  gave  it  wings  to  fly? 

Has  matter  innate  motion  ?  then,  each  atom, 

Asserting  it  indisputable  right 

To  dance,  would  form  a  universe  of  dust. 

Has  matter  none  ?  then  whence  these  glorious  forms, 

And  boundless  flights,  from  shapeless,  and  reposed  ? 

Has  matter  more  than  motion  ?     Has  it  thought, 

Judgment,  and  genius  ?     Is  it  deeply  learn'd 

In  mathematics  ?     Has  it  framed  such  laws, 

Which,  but  to  guess,  a  Newton  made  immortal  ? 

If  so,  how  each  sage  atom  laughs  at  me. 

Who  think  a  clod  inferior  to  a  man ! 

If  art,  to  form;  and  counsel  to  conduct. . 

And  that  with  greater  far  than  human  skill, 

Resides  not  in  each  block ; — a  GODHEAD  reigns, — 

And,  if  a  God  there  is,  that  God  how  great ! 


THE  BIBLE.-GEIMKE. 

The  Bible  is  the  only  book  which  God  has  ever  sent,  the 
only  one  he  ever  will  send  into  this  world.  All  other  books 
are  frail  and  transient  as  time,  since  they  are  only  the  reg- 
isters of  time ;  but  the  Bible  is  durable  as  eternity,  for  its 
pages  contain  the  records  of  eternity.  All  other  books  are 
weak  and  imperfect,  like  their  author,  man ;  but  the  Bible  is  a 
transcript  of  infinite  power  and  perfection.  Every  other  vol- 
ume is  limited  in  its  usefulness  and  influence ;  but  the  Bible 
came  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer  :  rejoicing  as  a  giant  to 
run  his  course,  and  like  the  sun,  "  there  is  nothing  hid  from  the 
heat  thereof."  The  Bible  only,  of  all  the  myriads  of  books 
the  world  has  seen,  is  equally  important  and  interesting  to  all 


THE  LADIES'  READER.  405 

mankind.  Its  tidings,  whether  of  peace  or  of  woe,  are  the 
same  to  the  poor,  the  ignorant,  and  the  weak,  as  to  the  rich, 
the  wise,  and  the  powerful. 

Among  the  most  remarkable  of  its  attributes,  is  justice;  for 
it  looks  with  impartial  eyes  on  kings  and  on  slaves,  on  the  heroj 
and  the  soldier,  on  philosophers  and  peasants,  on  the  eloquent 
and  the  dumb.  From  all  it  exacts  the  same  obedience  to  its 
commandments,  and  promises  to  the  good,  the  fruits  of  his  la- 
bors ;  to  the  evil,  the  reward  of  his  hands.  Nor  are  the  purity 
and  holiness,  the  wisdom,  benevolence  and  truth  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, less  conspicuous  than  their  justice.  In,  sublimity  and 
beauty,  in  the  descriptive  and  pathetic,  in  dignity  and  simplicity 
of  narrative,  in  power  and  comprehensiveness,  depth  and  vari- 
ety of  thought,  in  purity  and  elevation  of  sentiment,  the  most 
enthusiastic  admirers  of  the  heathen  classics  have  conceded 
llu-ir  inferiority  to  the  Scriptures. 

The  Bible,  indeed,  is  the  only  universal  classic,  the  classic 
of  all  mankind,  of  every  age  and  country,  of  time  and  eternity, 
more  humble  and  simple  than  the  primer  of  a  child,  more  grand 
and  magnificent  than  the  epic  and  the  oration,  the  ode  and  the 
drama,  when  genius  with  his  chariot  of  fire,  and  his  horses  of 
fire,  ascends  in  whirlwind  into  the  heaven  of  his  own  invention. 
It  is  the  best  classic  the  world  has  ever  seen,  the  noblest  that 
has  ever  honored  and  dignified  the  language  of  mortals! 

If  you  boast  that  the  Aristotles,  and  the  Platos,  and  the  Tul- 
lies,  of  the  classic  age,  "dipped  their  pens  in  intellect,"  the  sa- 


riv-l  authors  dipped  theirs  in  inspiration.  If  those  were  the 
"  secretaries  of  nature,"  these  were  the  secretaries  of  the  very 
Author  of  nature.  If  Greece  and  Rome  have  gathered  into 
their  cabinet  of  curiosities  the  pearls  of  heathen  poetry  and  el- 
oquence, the  diamonds  of  Pagan  history  and  Philosophy,  God 
himself  has  treasured  up,  in  the  Scriptures,  the  poetry  and  elo- 
quence, the  philosophy  and  history  of  sacred  lawgivers,  of 
prophets  and  apostles,  of  saints,  evangelists,  and  martyrs.  In 
vain  may  you  seek  for  the  pure  and  simple  light  of  universal 
truth  in  tin*  Augustan  ages  of  antiquity.  In  the  Bible  only  is 
the  poet's  wish  fulfilled  — 

"And  like  the  sun  be  all  one  boundless  eye." 


FINIS. 


" 


CATALOGUE 


OF 


fanbarfc  School  aito  College 

PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO., 
137  South  Fourth  St.,  Philadelphia. 


HISTORICAL  AND   GEOGRAPHICAL. 

GOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  PICTORIAL  HISTORY 
OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.     A  Pictorial  History 
of  the  United  States,  with  notices  of  oiher  portions  of 
America.     For  the  use  of  schools.     By  Samuel  G 
Goodrich.     1  vol.  12mo.,  360  pages,  embossed  backs,  $0.94 

GOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  AMERICAN  CHILD'S 
PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  TEIE  UNITED 
STATES.  An  Introduction  to  the  author's  Pictorial 
History  of  the  United  States.  At  press — ready  in 
November,  .... 

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Samuel  G.  Goodrich.  1  vol.  12mo.,  444  pages,  em- 
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with  a  Sketch  of  the  History  of  Modern  Italy.  For 
the  use  of  schools.  By  Samuel  G.  Goodrich.  1  vol 
12mo.,  333  pages',  .  .  .  .  -94 


2  HISTORICAL   AND   GEOGRAPHICAL. 

GOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  PICTORIAL  HISTORY 
OP  GREECE.  A  Pictorial  History  of  Greece, 
Ancient  and  Modern.  For  the  use  of  schools.  By 
Samuel  G.  Goodrich,  1  vol.  12mo.,  371  pages,  .  94 

GOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  PICTORIAL  HISTORY 
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the  use  of  schools.  By  Samuel  G.  Goodrich.  1  vol. 
12mo.,  347  pages,  .  .  .  .  .94 

GOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  PARLEY'S  COMMON 
SCHOOL  HISTORY.  A  Brief  Compend  of  Uni- 
versal History.  For  the  use  of  schools.  By  Samuel 
G.  Goodrich.  1  vol.  12mo.,  309  pages,  embossed 
backs,  ...  .  94 

QOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  COMMON  SCHOOL 
HISTORY  OF  THE  WORLD.  A  new  enlarged, 
revised,  and  newly  illustrated  edition  of  Parley's  Com- 
mon School  History.  At  press — ready  in  October,  1  00 

GOODRICH'S  (SAMUEL  G.)  FIRST  HISTORY.    An 

Introduction  to  Parley's  Common  School  History, 
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HISTORICAL   AND   GEOGRAPHICAL.  3 

MCCARTNEY'S  (WASHINGTON)  UNITED  STATES. 
The  Origin  and  Progress  of  the  United  States.  A 
Series  of  Lectures,  designed  to  illustrate  the  character 
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Embellished  by  numerous  Engravings  adapted  to  the 
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their  several  Empires,  Kingdoms,  States,  Territories, 
&c.  Illustrated  by  more  than  forty  coloured  Maps, 
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MITCHELL'S  BIBLICAL  GEOGRAPHY.  Design- 
ed  for  instruction  in  Sabbath  schools  and  Bible  classes ; 
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MITCHELL'S  GEOGRAPHICAL  QUESTION 
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PHILOLOGICAL,  ETC.  5 

Schools,  Bible  Classes,  High  Schools,  Academies,  and  Colleges,  as  well  as 
for  parents  and  instructors,  and  all  who  would  read  with  intelligent  interest 
the  Sacred  Scriptures. 

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Cartes  et  30  Gravures.  Par  Peter  Parley.  Half 
bound,  .  .  .  .  .  .60 

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DES  ECOLES  ET  DES  FAMILLES.  Par  Samuel 
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PHILOLOGICAL,  ETC. 

FLEMING  AND  TIBBINS'S  FRENCH  DICTION- 
ARY. An  entirely  New  and  Complete  French  and 
English  and  English  and  French  Dictionary,  adapted 
to  the  present  state  of  the  two  Languages.  By  Prof. 
Fleming,  Professor  of  English  in  the  College  of  Louis- 
le-Grand,  and  Prof.  Tibbins,  author  of  several  lexico- 
graphical works :  with  important  additions,  by  Charles 
Picot,  Esq.,  Professor  of  French  in  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  and  Judah  Dobson,  Esq.,  Member  of 
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6  PHILOLOGICAL,  ETC. 

NUGENT'S  (THOMAS)  FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH 
DICTIONARY.  A  Pocket  Dictionary  of  the  two 
Languages.  In  two  parts.  1.  French  and  English. 
2.  English  and  French.  By  Thomas  Nugent,  LL.D. 
452  pages,  square  12mo.,  embossed  backs,  .  .  $2J 

DONNEGAN'S   (JAMES)   GREEK  LEXICON.     A 

new  Greek  and  English  Lexicon,  on  the  plan  of  the 
Greek  and  German  Lexicon  of  Schneider;  'the  words 
alphabetically  arranged — distinguishing  such  as  are 
poetical,  of  dialectic  variety,  or  peculiar  to  certain 
writers  and  classes  of  writers;  with  Examples,  literally 
translated,  selected  from  the  classical  writers.  By 
James  Donnegan,  M.  D.,  of  London.  Revised  and 
enlarged  by  Robert  B.  Patton,  Professor  of  Ancient 
Languages  in  the  College  of  New  Jersey;  with  the 
assistance  of  J.  Addison  Alexander,  D.  D.,  of  the 
Theological  Seminary  at  Princeton.  1422  pages  royal 
8vo.  Fine  sheep,  .  .  .  .  .  3  00 

The  quick  sale  of  so  many  large  editions  of  this  Lexicon,  is  the  best 
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generally. 

OEHLSCHLAGER'S  (J.  C.)  ENGLISH  AND  GER- 
MAN, AND  GERMAN  AND  ENGLISH  DIC- 
TIONARY. English-German  and  German-English 
Pocket  Dictionary,  with  a  Pronunciation  of  the  English 
part  in  German  Characters  and  German  Sounds.  By 
J.  C.  Oehlschlager,  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in 
Philadelphia,  formerly  Professor  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage in  the  College  of  Quebec.  2d  edition.  1  vol. 
18mo.,  embossed  backs,  .  .  .  .  1  DO 

RICHARDSON'S  (CHARLES)  ENGLISH  DICTION- 
ARY. A  new  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language. 


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